Forever and Again the Wicked
by Port-of-Seas
Summary: post: Son of a Witch. If Fiyero was indeed the Scarecrow, what happened to him after he left Liir in the Emerald City? And what will become of him when he begins to remember who he is? Elphiyero/Fiyeraba. Complete.
1. Remembering what a Diploma Couldn't

Forever and Again Wicked

By: PortofSeas

Disclaimer: Though I love Gregory Maguire's characters (yes, even that horrible Avaric) I do not own them.

Author's Note: I know, I promise to get started on a Teen Titans or Ruroken story soon, but this was bugging me so much I couldn't even work on my regular stories. This is the story of Elphaba, after the conclusion of Son of a Witch. I loved the ending of the show (from what clips I've seen) and as a devout book fan, I wanted to incorporate both. I don't believe I will incorporate the clockwork dragon, though. And there will be little mention of Liir's relationships with either Trism or Candle (though Candle will be a given, considering her child) This is purely my hybrid of the show and book. Tending more toward the book, it brings in those aspects of the show that could work with it, without being out of canon. I'm sorry for all of the fans of "Dancing Through Life" Fiyero, but this is Arjiki prince and father Fiyero/scarecrow.

Read and Enjoy.

Chapter 1: Remembering what a diploma couldn't.

It was just a piece of paper. A silly, useless scrap of nothing that proclaimed that he was intelligent. He hadn't done anything to deserve it. He wasn't _really_ intelligent… but the wizard's diploma had given him a confidence, a sense of knowledge that somehow truly made him intelligent. At least, so he thought.

That first spew of intelligible words from his burlap-sack mouth had been an attempt at the Pythagorean theorem. Sweet Oz, looking back on it now, he hadn't even realized he hadn't said it right. It was only a few days later, after the departure of Dorothy and the Wizard, that he realized his flaw.

The sum of the squares of the legs of a right triangle is equal to the sum of the square of the hypotenuse.

Yes… that was the right formula. How silly that noone had caught his error the first time. Not that it mattered any. Once the fanfare was done and the excitement over, he was nothing more than an enchanted scarecrow, wandering the streets of the Emerald City. Thinking he had a brain.

And then it occurred to him. How had he managed to decipher the actual theorem, if he didn't have a brain? By this time he'd dismissed the diploma as a useless scrap of paper that the Wizard had given him to settle a whining presence. So where were these thoughts coming from? A new confidence he had developed? Was confidence the key to intelligence?

A few more days passed and he dismissed that idea as well. Confidence was belief in oneself, not the key to more knowledge. Knowledge was found and earned. And the fact that he realized this on his own gave him no respite from the questions that filled his once-empty head.

It certainly didn't help matters that he didn't need to sleep nor eat nor do any sort of human activity that usually distracted such, what could it be called, deep thoughts.

Days slipped by, weeks… for all he knew it could have been years before he finally came to a conclusion that perhaps it was memories that gave him this knowledge. Memories unlocked by a sudden childish belief that the Wizard of Oz could give him a brain. This led to the worst series of thoughts yet.

Scarecrows didn't have memories. He'd been magicked to life by those magic slippers Dorothy wore. So how could he have possibly had memories?

That was a sickeningly simple answer.

He had not always been a scarecrow. He had been something… well, something more. He had done things, known things, learned things that he had forgotten when he had been enchanted. An enchanted scarecrow. That had to be the most original thing in the book.

He found that intelligence made him rather cynical.

The Scarecrow sighed, leaning against the underside of the bridge, one of the many that criss-crossed the Emerald City. Glinda had come and gone, and in her stead some cheap imitation of himself. Nobody noticed, of course. To the rest of the world, a single scarecrow looked just like the next one. Of course, that could be nothing good, considering that he might have very well been just like each and every one of them years ago.

After that glorious epiphany, he had run amok throughout Oz, searching for answers. He'd frequented fortune tellers, self-proclaimed seers, and even the occasional maunt for answers. They provided few, except for one novice in particular.

"Can you help me?" he had pleaded after pouring out his desperate story to the young girl. The maunt had regarded him with bewilderment and disbelief, then a sort of deranged pity-as one might feel for the mentally unstable.

"Of course," she said sweetly, taking his straw-stuffed glove and leading him through the mauntery. "Perhaps all you need is some religious guidance, for the Unnamed God sees and loves all creatures…"

But he had stopped paying attention to her speech concerning the goodness and dignity of all things under the sun.

There he had seen people gathering and praying in the dusty cobbles outside, pious despite the posters that had been unceremoniously plastered on the walls. His mind had begun to itch, then burn with something he couldn't quite touch. The maunt had stopped, turning and noticing his interest.

"Oh, yes, this is where some of the faithful come when they cannot spare the time to come into the main chapel." She had said this with a definite tone stating that they certainly ought to _make _time to come into the chapel, but the Scarecrow had paid no mind. The incessant prickle in his mind had become maddening. The feelings that had accompanied it were…

Well, looking back on it now he could say they weren't too bad. But at the time it had been horrendous.

Staring down at the pilgrims and worshippers, he had thought he saw a figure, bundled up as though it was the dead of winter, bowing respectfully.

Then she had looked up.

And he had found himself staring into the face of the Wicked Witch of the West. He had almost cried out in alarm when the vision, or memory or whatever it was, vanished. Had he been human, he had no doubt in his mind he would have broken out into a cold sweat. Even now, after all this time, that wretched woman haunted him.

"What patron saint do you honor here?" he had asked suddenly. The maunt had regarded him suspiciously, but hadn't been the sort to pass up an opportunity to pass out information.

"Saint Glinda, same name as that Lady Chuffrey, but not the same woman."

The scarecrow had only nodded. Saint Glinda… he would have to remember this mauntery, for whatever good or ill it might have brought.

More time had passed, and eventually wit had driven him to Gillikin. After all, he had been educated, else he wouldn't have known the things he knew. Shiz University had been rumored to be one of the best learning establishments in Oz.

He had strode as confidently as he could into those halls, admiring the view despite his rural appearance. Everything had been shined and polished and loved on, like some precious statue in a housewife's living room. And yet…

It brought no memories. Hurriedly, he had rushed to find the headmistress-at least he remembered that the University was run by a headmistress!-only to be stopped by a surly looking elf in a starched uniform.

"Please," he had begged. "I need in to see the headmistress."

"Nuffin for it, then," the elf snapped. "I may be replacing a clock'ork fool but I don' fink I'm as dumb as one."

"I need to find out if I ever attending this school," he had gone on, but the elf only raised a bushy black eyebrow.

"You?" he had chided harshly. "You ain't bin ta this school. Ain't no scarecrows I ever seen here, and ain't no boys 'oo was allowed in. This 'ere is a girl's school! Now off wi' ya, the 'eadmistress is very busy."

After that encounter, the Scarecrow had gone into serious self doubt about whether or not this was a worthy mission. Part of him didn't want to follow all the clues only to discover that he had actually been a _girl!_ Of course… if he had been a girl than back then he-she-whatever would have thought being a male scarecrow was horrible.

There was no possible way he was a girl!

After several terrible moments of consideration, the thought finally occurred to him that perhaps he had gone to another school. So much for those magnificent brains of his.

Several days later and an eventual trip to Crage Hall had yielded a treasure trove of precious memory. A studious munchkin bent over books and going on about some girl named Miss Galinda, two boys with very little capacity for being serious, a careless rich boy with no real concern for others. The Scarecrow distinctly remembered that he was unpleasant.

"_Who would want to have skin the color of shit?"_

"_Well, who would want shit for brains?"_

The first he had recognized as an insult thrown at him. The second voice, though…

Just another mystery that needed solving.

After a time of traveling about Gillikin, he had opened up a vast quantity of memories. Places he'd been, people he'd known. Even an unfortunate visit to the Philosophy Club, which he would have preferred not to have entered.

And yet, each memory seemed haunted, tainted with the presence of the Wicked Witch of the West. He knew her by no other name, as he had only just come into being as Dorothy passed him on the road. Why did the Witch seem to enter his memories so often? Was it some horrible spell she had placed on his before dying? That she would enter his mind?

Why was she so gentle, though, in his memories? The Witch he remembered had been cruel, unfeeling, even mad… but not sweet. She hadn't clung to Glinda-how had he managed the stroke of luck to have known Glinda in his childhood?-she hadn't tended to some poor armless creature dotingly.

She hadn't sung like some sort of haunting angel.

Elphaba.

That was her name. Her real name. Elphie… though the armless girl had mentioned a nickname of Fabala.

Elphaba Elphie Fabala…

Something was missing.

How many years had passed he couldn't be certain. Down to Munchkinland and back, he never picked up anything useful. Stray thoughts he had thought in that past life, fleeting images that meant nothing.

Discouraged, he had returned to the Emerald City, trying to piece together what he had learned. He had been a person of some importance, with dark skin and some sort if interesting marking. He had been friends with Elphaba (he had found he preferred to call her Elphaba than the Witch) and Glinda, the armless girl, the munchkin Boq, those two funny fellows, and had some fort of relation with that nasty Avaric fellow. He'd been married, wih children, but their names and faces were lost to him. It added up to something, he knew.

He just hadn't known what.

In the years he had been gone, the Emerald City had changed. Under the Apostle Emperor Shell Thropp (again, a name that meant something obscure) it had been renovated and changed into something else. Unique, but alien. He had seen little hope in finding more answers in this place.

Caught up in another moment of disgust, he had wandered idly through the city. His most forward thought was: How could he have ever associated with Elphaba like that? Had he known no shame? And along that line of thought came others. Why had he enjoyed her company in his memories? What was the plug that stopped the rest from coming through?

He had clung to the diploma over the years, as though touching it like a talisman would help him to unlock more mysteries.

Without realizing it, his feet had led him to a decrepit boarding house. Without realizing what he was doing, he had walked inside. Without realizing what was about to happen, he had asked to look around.

"Of course," the landlady said, smiling toothily. "If you're looking for accomodations, we've got a spare room up there, half the regular price."

"Why is it half price?"

Her smile wilted some, without actually fading.

"Oh, some poppycock about a murder or something, but you needn't believe that."

He had allowed his feet to lead him up the dusty steps. Clearly this place hadn't always been a boarding house-the walls still held the disrepair of a building abandoned too long to be renovated. The thought had crossed his mind that perhaps the new owner had simply moved in, built on, and claimed it.

At the top of the steps his feet turned, leading him into a room that had probably not been touched in decades.

Despite the straw and twigs that made up his light form, the Scarecrow felt suddenly heavy under the hideous weight of memory.

This was her room. This was where they had been together, in their sinful paradise. A white cat, stale crackers, a black scarf with red roses wrapped around a perfect emerald waist.

Blue diamonds on a green field.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The Scarecrow sighed and whacked his head ineffectively against the stone bridge, wishing he had teeth to gnash together. The new, fresh memory of his visit to Elphaba's apartment was wrought of pain and depression. That was the place where he had truly lived.

And truly died.

The memories now filled his head in a way he had never dreamed back as the brainless Scarecrow. His adultery with Elphaba, betraying Sarima, his children,his life. His name, her name.

Elphaba Fabala Elphie Fae.

And Fiyero. Yero her hero.

She was dead. And when she had died, he had felt no remorse. Surely what he knew know was remorse tenfold. How he had become the Scarecrow he didn't know. Perhaps she had cast a spell. He wished she hadn't. Then they could have been together in death.

But that would be wishing her death, wouldn't it?

And those thoughts lead to more thoughts too ugly to be 'intelligent', only prodding the wounds deeper. He had to find her. He had to help her somehow… But how could he make amends to a dead woman, incredible though she had been?

She was at Kiamo Ko. Or had been when she'd died. What had happened to Sarima and his children he couldn't fathom; he didn't want to fathom it at the moment. The first step was to get out of the Emerald City and return to his palace, to see what had become of it through the eyes of a prince.

Standing, the Scarecrow Fiyero edged out from under the bridge and began to make his way methodically toward the Vinkus. Winkie country.

He had a brain, he had a heart, he had nerve. He even had memories.

If only he could still have her.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

And thus ends the first chapter of Forever and Again the Wicked. Read and Review honestly, please.


	2. The Cloister of Saint Glinda

Forever and Again the Wicked 

By Port-of-seas

Disclaimer: I don't own any of Gregory Maguire's original characters, though I would love to. It would certainly make life interesting.

Author's Note: Chapter two in the revival of Elphaba and Fiyero in Wicked. Much of this was written during a wild slumber party while watching Pirates of the Carribean and screaming every time Johnny Depp and Jack Davenport came on (interrupted only when we broke into spontaneous song) so if it strikes you as a little odd, I'm sorry.

Chapter 2: The Cloister of Saint Glinda 

The journey to Kiamo Ko would by far not be the easirst, but Fiyero believed he would meet little conflict along the way. The path to the palace was most often taken through the Grasstrail Train, snaking through the Disappointments, around the Kells, across the Vinkus, and all over the Thousand Year Grasslands. He hadn't the patience or the money for such a thing, and opted for the straightest possible route.

He departed from the Emerald City without much incident. The guards would sooner see riff raff like him leaving the city than staying anyway.

Those first few steps out of the city brought him such invigoration and purpose as he had now known since, well, since he had last been Fiyero the Arjiki Prince. Several steps later supplied a sort of resignation, then longing, then overwhelming nostalgia.

By the time the Cloister of Saint Glinda came into view, his despair and grief were so complete that his fragile hay-stuffed body threatened to collapse. Elphaba was dead, and he was doing nothing more than heading out to visit her grave. His family was gone; that much he remembered from his brief visit to the castle with Dorothy. His gut lurched with the thought that Elphaba might have been in some way responsible for it. But it couldn't be. She would never have harmed his family.

When he had almost given into his own dismal thoughts, the door to the mauntery opened suddenly and a diminutive maunt stepped out onto the grass. She was a munchkin by the look of her, and vaguely he wondered how a munchkin had come to live in such a place as this.

"Hello there!" she called as he drew nearer. "Will you be needing sanctuary?"

"Directions," he replied, stopping just short of her feet and glancing down. The maunt looked downcast at the news and began playing with the fabric of her shift.

"Oh, well, that's quite all right," she said. "The house is in a bit of a state, anyway. We had some soldiers here a while ago and you know how soldiers can be."

Her voice faltered as she stopped to consider 'well, did he know how soldiers were? He was a scarecrow, after all.' After a moment, she shook it off and spoke again.

"Well, you'll have to come ask directions from someone else. The only time I ever went out west was with Sister Doctor, and she was more in charge of directions."

The way the munchkin emphasized 'in charge' suggested that she did not, indeed, believe this Sister Doctor was in any way superior simply because of her sense of direction. Fiyero sighed and allowed her to lead him inside. The maunt's sudden cheer seemed to have returned slightly now that he had agreed to come in. Vaguely, he wondered whether popularity among maunts was dependent on how many good deeds performed or how many travelers they sheltered.

The mauntery didn't appear to be in much disrepair. Whatever had happened on account of the soldiers appeared to have been quickly remedied. The most obvious thing he could sense was the faint smell of smoke.

It never ceased to astound him that he could smell at all. Hearing and vision were given senses that could have been expected. After all, a Scarecrow magicked to life was going to need those to communicate. But smell and touch were somehow, strangely, also present. Dimmer, of course, than he recalled from his human past, but nevertheless, they were _there._

Feeling was fairly versatile. He could tell if something was touching him, for example, but whether it was hot or cold, hard or soft, animal or mineral, he had to concentrate to determine. Pain, however… He could almost feel that terrifying lick of fire threatening to engulf him. He could fall almost painlessly from a mountain, but a single candle flame could threaten his very existencee.

Fiyero thought this to be strange. The Scarecrow, however, was entirely at ease with it.

"Candle, have you seen Sister Doctor?" the munchkin maunt's voice shocked him out of his silent reverie. He glanced about and noticed that she had led him into some sort of kitchen, where an old crone was kneading a lumpy dough vigorously. Beside her stood a pretty auburn-topped Quadling girl clutching an infant so bundled up in blankets that he couldn't see an inch of its skin. The girl glanced up, sheking her head slightly. When her eyes landed on the Scarecrow, she went rigid and clutched the baby closer, more protectively.

"I'd try the hospice," the cook recommended, now pounding at the dough. "That's where you usually find her."

"Thank you Sister Cook," the munchkin said. "Candle."

With a flurry of skirts, she turned heel and headed of down another hall. Fiyero followed hurriedly behind, determined to keep up. As always, however, his newly perfected mind was equally determined to run astray.

"I thought maunts weren't allowed to marry," he remarked, easily keeping up with her small legs, however quickly she stepped. The maunt shrugged and replied:

"Well, Candle isn't exactly ma-uh, that is to say, she isn't exactly a maunt yet." Her face flushed suddenly pink, though Fiyero couldn't fathom why.

"Oh, well then, where is the father?"

"In the gar-um, grasslands," she said, thoroughly flustered. Her voice had acquired a high-pitched, squeaky quality that almost made her seem comical. "The Thousand Year Grasslands. Some sort of business, don't ask me what. I wouldn't know."

Fiyero fell silent. Clearly the matter of this Candle girl and her famile was a touchy subject, and it wasn't his place to ask. Directions were more important than idle affairs or scandals among maunts in their tight cloisters.

They came at last to a large-doored room wihich, when opened, revealed a creamy white hospice, circular in shape, and tapering up into a fine point in the ceiling. In shape, it was not unlike the hat of a…

Well, he couldn't bring himself to allow the thought to enter his mind that would suggest Elphaba being a witch. Not now that he had regained his memories. But _Elphaba _and _Witch_ were two words that seemed to coincide so thoughtlessly.

Seated in one of the beds sorting through various herbs was an older lady. The munchkin maunt cleared her throat, and the she glanced up.

"Sister Doctor," the diminutive maunt said in a fainrly reprimanding tone. "I believe sorting through things such as herbs is my job."

Sister Doctor shrugged, not breaking eye contact.

"Well, if you hadn't been so busy scrounging for compliments, Sister Apothecaire, I'm sure you would be doing this yourself."

Sister Apothecaire blushed and cleared her throat, looking back at the Scarecrow before going on.

"Yes, well, al, this fellow needs directions to…" she glanced questionably back at him.

"Kiamo Ko," he said thickly. Sister Doctor raised an eyebrow.

"That's an unusual place to visit," she remarked. "You do realize that the royal family is long gone and the Witch is long dead?"

"I know that," he retorted dryly. The conversation was doing little for his already flustered nerves. "I'm not brainless. At least, not anymore."

Sister Apothecaire's eyes went wide and her hands flew to her mouth with a tiny gasp. Sister Doctor set the herbs aside.

"You're _that_ Scarecrow?" the munchkin exclaimed. "But… but the unfortunate lighter fluid incident years ago…"

"There is more than one enchanted Scarecrow in Oz," he replied. Sister Doctor nodded, crossing her arms.

"So, the Scarecrow associated with that Dorothy girl _wasn't_ placed in power," she said. Fiyero resisted the compelling urge to groan aloud. He had almost forgotten that he was still somewhat famous-or infamous-for his association with the non-Ozian Dorothy.

"If it isn't too forward to ask," Sister Doctr went on. "Why do you want so badly to visit Kiamo Ko? I would think you of all people would want to avoid it."

Through the skylight the full moon fell heavily on Elphaba sleeping. Her skin was more pearly than green… There was a smell of perfume in the air…

He shook his head, trying to cast away the bittersweet memory. He could not indulge in these thoughts in company. Though he doubted the maunts would suspect something so specific as his predicament, he nevertheless didn't want to risk anyone being present when he relived those precious, precious memories.

As though he was trying to preserve them for himself.

"I have my reasons," he replied, relaxing his burlap face into an expressionless mask.

Sister Apothecaire opened her mouth to say something, but Sister Doctor cut her off.

"I understand as much," she said. "But I don't promise that noone is going to pry." Suggesting that she herself was going to give into her own curiosity at some point. "It's going to rain tonight, though, so I suggest you stay until morning at least."

In silent testimony to her words, a flash of lightning lit up the sky, soon followed by a rumbling peal of thunder.

o-o-o

There goes Chapter 2. A special thanks to all who reviewed or watched it! I know it's a pretty cliché'd theme (and the fact that it's bookverse cliché probably doesn't help) So again, thank you. Please continue to review and tell me what you think, for better or for worse.


	3. Mother Yackle

**Forever and Again the Wicked**

By Port of Seas

Disclaimer: Don't own Wicked………nope, still don't.

Author's note: Another little Author's note before the story starts, for those who are interested in the story. I believe this to be one of the chapters closest to what Gregory Maguire would have written. Mostly Fiyero's thoughts and being lost. Also, I'mgoing to start asking everyone who reads to review, if nothing else because writers are, at heart, review whores. Enjoy.

Chapter 3: Mother Yackle

True to Sister Doctor's prediction, the storm raged on outside with such intensity that even a normal traveler couldn't have hoped to make it through. The fact that his body was infinitely more likely to retain water, the unfortunate side effect of being filled with straw, could only complicate things for him.

Fiyero had taken to the hospice after the maunts departed for dinner. He leaned up against the window, willing himself to see past the misty sheets of rain to the distant castle of Kiamo Ko. He noticed with some dismay that the glass hardly fogged beneath his touch. Even if he chose to breath on it, only the faintest of clouds would appear before immediately dissolving. Not that he needed to breathe. He just wanted to.

Out there, somewhere, had to be her remains. What he was going to do with them once he found them, he certainly didn't know. He had taken life sciences to be sure, but he had no Essence of Life to his name that he could use. And he highly doubted experimenting with the stuff would be a good idea. He still remembered the enchanted antlers attacking him on his first day of school.

Besides, if it could bring back the dead why did people die at all? The only conclusion possible was that it wouldn't work.

So why was he doing it? Elphaba was dead. Why did it mean so much to get to what remained of here after this past decade?

Because it was his only lead, he answered himself. His only way to tie himself to _Fiyero_ that he knew of. Whatever had happened to his family, he couldn't find out on his own. Perhaps some clues could be found there. Though he doubted it would lead to much. The only being who he believed he believed that castle would provide a legible story for was Elphaba. And if he could find out about her life in Kiamo Ko… perhaps he could find a way to restore it.

These were thoughts he had chased around again and again in circles until he felt like a rat caught in a burning barn. There was no escape but to run into the next dangerous train of thoughts, and yet that neverending hope that some opening would provide some sort of salvation.

Sweet Oz, why did all this have to happen? If only she had listened to him back in the Emerald City and left her foolish attempts to thwart the Wizard. He had no way of telling what it came to after he had died, but whatever it had been, it had led to her becoming the Wicked Witch of the West.

With some amusement, he wondered how she had come to be called 'witch'. Everyone who knew Elphaba knew of her strong convictions that she was utterly useless in the ways of sorcery and left the business entirely to Glinda. The fact that she had come to be called a witch was reminiscent of the witch Kumbricia, who had her own religious back stories almost as plentiful as Lurline herself.

Facts, logic, and good ethics. Those had been Elphie's real tools of trade; not tiaras or hats or wands or broomsticks. He highly doubted that she had been the first to call herself a witch. But the fact that she had allowed it to go on was more than a little surprising.

Perhaps she had finally given in and allowed other people to take her name and toss it at last, alone and unwanted, out of society. Perhaps becoming the Witch was her way of liberating herself from the society that had rejected her for so long.

Fiyero sighed, noticing the tiny fog that barely made its presence on the window known before disappearing. The rain pelted the window with an audible _thropp, thropp, thropp._ What a mess things had become.

Suddenly, the hospice door opened behind him, though Fiyero didn't bother to turn his head. If it was some maunt out to find out exactly why he was heading to Kiamo Ko, he didn't care. He didn't entirely know the answer himself anymore.

"Rainy night," an elderly voice commented. He replied only with a slight 'mmm' and focused harder on the tiny droplets as they snaked their way down the glass. The sound of wheels echoed throughout the room as whoever it was wheeled herself closer. She couldn't have been that old, then, if she could wheel herself without assistance.

"You look sad, dear," she remarked, as though trying to make small-talk without being too good at it. Fiyero graced her with a glance, taking in her appearance. She was far older than he expected after all. Everything about her sagged with the weight of years on this earth, and yet there was a light in her eyes that, despite the wrinkles, suggested that she wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

"I don't look like anything," he commented wryly. "Scarecrows aren't exactly famous for being emotional."

"You aren't a scarecrow, though, are you," she said. Fiyero sat up straighter, peering more closely at her. Did she know who he was, or was she as batty as appearance would otherwise suggest. And I she did know, could he trust her at all? For all he knew, the Emperor Apostle could have been out to finish off anyone that had anything to do with either of the Wicked Witches, as though to vindicate himself from their lasting legacy.

"Who are you?" he asked. The old woman smiled, her face wrinkling like a crumpled piece of paper being straightened out again.

"Old Mother Yackle hasn't got anything for you to fear, Scarecrow," she replied. Yackle. That name sounded familiar yet distant, like someone he had met in a restaurant or heard of in passing. Oh well. It didn't matter, did it? The woman wheeled closer, piercing him with her keen, milky eyes.

"She looked a lot like you when she came through," Yackle went on, as though going on about some story she forgot she hadn't told before. "Sad, confused, though you seem a lot more awake than she was. Maybe that's because Scarecrows don't sleep. But you're not a Scarecrow, are you?"

"Who came through?" he asked suddenly, ignoring her other incoherent babble of words. He suddenly needed to know who 'she' was. Yackle's expression didn't change an inch.

"Oh, lots of people came through," she said, her gnarled fingers playing with themselves in her lap. "Old ones, young ones, mostly sick. Some girls become maunts. I met a strange one once. Poor creature. She was just like the cat that came of the wrong end of the fight. I remember her well. Stayed on here for a while, but she left before she really became a maunt. It was too bad, really, that she left when she did. Any sooner and things might have turned out a little better. Or worse. She could have made it either way."

Fiyero's vain hope faltered with each babbling word. A maunt… no, it couldn't have been. Elphaba would never have been defeated as this Yackle woman described, and becoming a maunt was the last thing anyone could ever see Elphaba doing. After all, who had ever heard of an agnostic holy woman?

He fell back on the window, suddenly wishing the old crone gone. The last thing he needed right now was to find hope in an elderly maunt's insane ramblings. But Yackle would not be discouraged.

"You should see the baby," she suggested. "Lovely thing, she is, like a little cherub. Prettiest skin you ever saw, and such eyes."

"Which baby?" he inquired, trying to humor the old woman until she let him be. "That girl Candle's?"

"That's the one. Before you go to see the Witch, you should see the baby. You'd find that you'd like her a lot."

Before Fiyero could say anything, Yackle had turned and begun to wheel herself out of the hospice. He shook his head and closed his eyes. It wasn't worth pressing the matter. Just an old woman who had an affinity for children and had manages to correctly guess what he believed to be his reason for returning to Kiamo Ko.

Dejectedly, he tried to focus on the rain outside, trying to will away the terrible image of Elphaba being that girl that Yackle had described from his mind. He was finding any excuse to think of her now, even when the images that came to mind were impossible.

o-o-o-o

I hope you enjoyed it; I hate to sound typical, but please review. It keeps me motivated and lets me know how many people are actually reading. This will probably be an announcement for a while. Hope you enjoyed!


	4. The Son of the Witch

Disclaimer: I don't own it. I hope you're happy! I hope you're happy now!

Author's note: This was probably the easiest chapter yet to write, though how easy it's going to be from here I can't say. Liir isn't the most comfortable character for me to write about because he's so unsure of himself, but he just seems to flow very easily onto the page. Thank you again to everyone who reviews. I know not many people on have read both books and are interested in fanfic sequels, so it brightens my day!

**Important: **I will be out of state next week, so an update cannot be guranteed on my regular Tuesday schedule. THis is not to assume that I have, in any way, forgotten the story. The next few chapters are already backed up. Just a warning. And, as always, more reviews do encourage me, but I'm just begging.

Chapter 4: The Son of the Witch

Despite the downpour, one body elected to stand outside the safety of the mauntery, letting the rain wash over his haggard features. Each singular, painless drop was a sort of revival, a testament that he was alive and not about to die. He was safer out in the open than in the clutches of others, save his closest companions. And even then, he felt that he was little more than a hindrance, a danger to them all.

After all, he was the son of a Witch.

Behind him, the light of the mauntery brightened as a door opened and a figure strode out, still hiding under the porch roof. Instinctively he drew back, hiding in the comforting shadows of the night.

"Liir?" the figure called, her voice high-pitched and soft. Liir relaxed, exhaling softly as he came into the light. Compared to Candle's gentle, clean form he must have looked a mess.

"Candle," he breathed, coming as close as he dared without getting her wet. "You shouldn't be out here, it's raining."

"You're out here," she replied stubbornly. Liir sighed, shaking his head, sending tiny droplets flying from his recently hewn hair.

"Fine, then, you shouldn't bring _Fae_ out here," he corrected himself. "If she was to get wet-"

"Then it would be no different than you or me," Candle interrupted, shifting the blankets in her arms to reveal their beautiful green-skinned baby sleeping blissfully in her mother's arms. Candle hurriefly covered her up again, returning her stern yet kind gaze to his face.\

"She isn't Elphaba, Liir," the Quadling went on fiercely. "We already know by now that water doesn't harm her. So you can stop looking for that woman in every shadow you see."

Liir shook his head again and turned around, pacing. With one hand he brushed through his charcoal hair anxiously.

"It isn't that easy," he insisted. "You never lives with her."

"But I lived with my daughter enough to know that she is no witch."

Liir turned around to see the defiant slant of Candle's chin, the very sort that she had taken when advising that he go to the Council of the Birds not so long ago. She never really lost her temper, but she did have a calm about her that carried more weight.

"Candle," he chided, but she wouldn't hear it.

"You muss Elphaba, even if you still won't admit it," she stated, as though it was as obvious as the color of the Emerald City. "That's why you named Fae after her, wasn't it?"

Liir faltered. When he'd first seen his daughter's skin, of course his first thoughts had been of Elphaba. It was hard not to make the connection between two beings so undeniably green. Fae was just a name he remembered, either from something he had heard or seen during one of his few stays at Kiamo Ko. It had probably been a passing mention from his childhood, a residual piece of information floating to the surface of his mind upon the sight of his child

In his silence, Candle seemed to have found her answer. She adjusted her grip on the baby and leaned against the wall behind, staring out as the sheets of rain fell down.

"Sometime soon, I will return to Apple Press Farm," she reported, absently rubbing the child's arm through the blankets. "The maunts are kind, but I would rather see Fae raised somewhere less frequented by travelers."

"I could take her," Lirr suggested almost hopefully, but Candle only shook hr head.

"No, you have somewhere else to go."

Liir was thrown off guard and, leaning one hand against the wall by her ear, he attempted to catch her eye.

"What?" he demanded urgently. "What could be more important right now than staying with you and Fae?"

"A lot of things and you know it," Candle answered. "A new visitor came in today; a scarecrow. He seems to have a lot on his mind. Sister Apothecaire says he's only stopping here for a time until he can get on the road again."

"What has this got to do with me?" Liir asked shortly. Candle glanced up at him.

"He's heading for Kiamo Ko. I would think that might be of some importance to you."

Liir leaned back against the wall and shrugged.

"Whatever he thinks he's going to find, I doubt it would be there," he said dismissively, scratching absently at his unshaven chin. "There's nothing there."

"There are rumors that he's the Scarecrow that was involved with Dorothy and the witch hunters."

Liir paused a moment, then shrugged habitually once more and crossed his arms.

"One Scarecrow looks just like the next to most people," he replied. Candle watched him carefully.

"What other Scarecrow besides him could have a reason to go to that castle?" she asked.

Liir didn't answer, and at a length Candle returned inside with the baby. The rain abated little as the night wore on, and a trembling shiver shook his frame, going all but unnoticed by Liir himself as he stared blankly ahead. In that moment, he resembled Elphaba more than ever; in one of her silent, pensive brooding moods.

At last, as the downpour fell to a drizzle and the first rays of dawn penetrated the thick overhand of clouds, he left the porch and traipsed through the garden over to an old shed by the orchard. Throwing open the door, he rummaged around for a bit, pushing aside gardening tools and shattered pots until at last he came upon an old broom and a battered traveling cloak, black as his own tattered locks.

o-o-o-o

**I am now starting Review Replies:**

**Green Wicked Tango: Agh! Don't die! The next chapter is here.**

**IamTheWitch: Yeah, Yackle was fun to write. She's so... odd!**

**Phantom of the Wicked: Well, now Fiyero is not a solitary character. So he's still technically alone... but now we know that Liir is also in the picture!**

And there goes Chapter 4. Please review and tell me what you think (it also helps me keep track of how many people are actually reading it.)


	5. The Figure in the Sky

Disclaimer: Wicked isn't mine, but this story sure is!

Author's note: Okay, chapter 5! This one is a little more, shall we say irrelevant in comparison to the others, but I have an annoying habit of trying to get as close to a book-written story as possible. Again, I'm so sorry for the long wait and so indescribably thankful to those readers who have reviewed. It really does keep me from just quitting.

Chapter 5: The Figure in the Sky

The rain had abated some time near dawn, leaving behind a damp, rosy morning that shone with an almost dismal cheer. The hospice was empty and silent, save for a slight dripping leak in the corner from run-off water in the roof. The Scarecrow awoke, perturbed.

_What's this?_ He thought absently. _Where are the cornfields? This can't be Munchkinland…_

_No!_ Fiyero interrupted suddenly. _I should be in Kiamo Ko, with Manek and Irji out making noise in the gardens, or in the inn in the Emerald City._

He blinked several times, slowly recalling everything he had encountered in the past decade and the past few days. A hospice… yes, he was in a hospice in the Cloister of Saint Glinda.

He stood unsteadily. His straw-filled legs suddenly seemed weak and incapable of supporting his equally light body. He leaned against the wall, waiting for the unease to pass.

_My body must think I'm human,_ he realized. It made sense; his human body would have been far too heavy for his straw legs to support.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his face screwed in a look of disturbed concentration that, on a Scarecrow, was almost comical. He couldn't remember the last time he had really, truly fallen asleep as he just had. He could certainly recall the strange feeling of forgetting a dream consciously while the body somehow remembered it. He had probably dreamed himself human. It was a curious and unsettling feeling.

Could it be that he was becoming more human with each passing moment? But then, that train of thought would have to imply that he had stopped being human at all.

With an unnecessary sigh, he pushed off the wall and left the hospice in search of Sister Doctor. The mauntery was all but abandoned, though distantly he could hear the muffled sound of singing echoing halfheartedly through the halls. He followed it through the smoke-smelling mauntery, pausing occasionally as the Unionist hymns waned. The sound seemed to reverberate eerily throughout the entire mauntery. Perhaps it was the fact that all the maunts were gathered together that added to the surreality of it.

By the time he had tracked down the chapel where the maunts were gathered, the service had anded and, one by one, the maunts trickled out, flowing back to their daily duties. He lingered by the door, looking away from the women who stole curious glances at him. Sister Doctor had not been among them.

Pushing the door open silently, he peered into the room to see three maunts remaining. One he didn't recognize, and he supposed it didn't matter. Beside her stood Candle, still holding the bnundle of rags (did she ever put that baby down?) And beside her, Sister Doctor.

The lattermost maunt glanced up and, seeing him, excused herself from the other two.

"I suppose you'll be wanting directions, then," she said sullenly; no doubt she was disappointed that none had been able to discern his purposes before he planned to depart. Fiyero nodded stiffly.

"The sooner the better, really," he replied. For a moment he was struck by the irony that he, Prince Fiyero of the Arjiki, the Scarecrow of Dorothy, needed directions to Kiamo Ko of all places. Sister Doctor pursed her lips.

"Very well," she said at a length. "I'll get those to you shortly. Just excuse me for a moment."

Though whether or not he chose to excuse her was irrelevant, for Sister Doctor excused herself back into the chapel.

o-o-o-o

The firm, hard earth that surrounded the mauntery had turned marshy and thick overnight. It was suggested that he stay another night, or at least until the land dried some, but Fiyero refused. Now that he had a mind, there was no doubt that any delay would cause him to lose it.

For a time the travel was rough but satisfying. The sticky mud sometimes threatened to pull his entire leg under in the thicker patches, and more than once he became aware that some of his own straw had come out in the effort. But it was a good feeling. There was a seldom used Unionist saying, "The harder the hardship, the goodlier the good." Few liked the saying due to its implication that one had to suffer in life. And it didn't necessarily gurantee happiness.

But in his situation, it gave him hope, and hope kept him going.

However, his eager fervor could not last long. By noon, the traveling had become too difficult to continue and he was forced to take a break and wait for the earth to dry, Sluggishly, he managed to find a dry patch of earth to wait on, silently cursing having not done so before. He had lost far too much straw along the way, and his motor skills only suffered from it.

With a grunt, he dropped down onto the ground, completely lacking the grace he ought to have commanded. So much for princeliness, but who was there to see anyway? And even it they did, who would care?

Methodically, he began pulling at the stiff growths of grass sprouting from the ground and stuffing them into his short, glancing around to confirm that none was there to see. Again, few could care even if they did see him, but there was something oddly distressing and embarrassing about stuffing himself in public.

Yet, at the same time, it gelt good to be replacing the old Munchkinland straw with the grasses so near his own land. Depsite his haggard appearance, the nearness to the Arjiki tribal lands made him feel…

Well, why was he bothering to count evey moment he felt like Fiyero again?

After he had finally finished with the gras, he leaned back and stared up at the sky filled with steely clouds. It looked like a rain was coming… Sweet Oz he hoped it wouldn't. The last thing he needed was to be weighed down due to his tendency to retain water.

Amidst the billowing clouds, a small fleck of a black figure was tossed tumultuously about the air. Strange. As far as he could recall, it resembled no bative bird or Bird that had any business flying in these lands at this time of year.

He hitched himself up onto his elbows, focusing on the flickering figure. For a brief moment, the thought _'dragon' _occurred to him. But that couldn't be. The Emperor Apostle's dragons had been decimated by some terrorist who had managed to break into the stables.

Some rumors reported that the deed had been committed by none other thant he son of Elphaba. As far as he knew, that same rumor still held that it was Liir.

His chest pained suddenly, though he had no physical heart to ache. What if Liir really was Elphaba's son? What did that make of their relationship?

It was just another set of questions to be stored in the back of his mind.

The speck in the sky flickered and shrank, rising up into the clouds. Fiyero narrowed his eyes. Its movement was too purposeful to be any sort of animal.

Heaving a sigh, he pushed himself off the ground and made to trudge on through the rain-softened land, his eyes ever on the sky.

o-o-o-o

**Review Replies**

**Megan: Unfortunately, that appears to be the premises under which I am writing. No gurantees either way, though. snicker**

**Tera Earth: I don't know. I mean, we all know what a neat freak Liir is...**

**Yero my hero: I'm glad you enjoyed it. Nothing like princely scarecrow angst in the morning. As to your other remark... well, you'll just have to wait and see. snicker**

**Molly: Well... your wish is my command. And the reason for its rating is due to content I plan to put in later. I'll let you get creative.**

**Iamthewitch: Thanks so much. Your reviews always brighten my day. It was fun to finally bring in Liir and Candle together.**

**Kennedy Leigh Morgan: Well, I'm home, and aside from a few stops at Gaia, this was my first visit. More coming soon.**

We're one chapter closer to Kiamo Ko. Please read and review, and tell me honestly what you think, whether I'm going too fast, to slow, etc… Remember, reviews do motivate me to write more and faster.


	6. The BroomBoy and the Scarecrow

Disclaimer: Well, the outcropping in this story is my original creation, if that counts for anything. Otherwise, it's all Gregory Maguire's.

Author's Note: Well, here's the chapter I know some of you (the ones that review coughcough) have been waiting for. Now review it!

Chapter 6: The Broom-Boy and the Scarecrow 

Three days later, the figure up in the sky was still there, and clearly in pursuit. Fiyero didn't quite know whether or not the thing knew he was aware of its actions. On the one hand, it could be doing nothing more than monitoring his movement west. On the other, it could just as easily be tracking, possible even hunting him.

Neither possibility was particularly appealing, especially not considering the nature of his journey. Unless it was one of the scant few supporters of Elphaba. It was settled then; he was going to have to do something about it.

Around noon on the fourth day, he came upon an outcropping of rocks that appeared to tear violently out of the ground as they reached for the clouds. It was a good sign; he was nearing the Kells, and he could finally do something about this sky-hunter.

He ambled uphill to the rock formation, creeping clumsily about for a time until he was certain that he was invisible from an upward vantage point. With one hand he balanced himself against one of the massive outcroppings; and with the other he pushed at some smaller boulders, loosening enough for a good kick to send them tumbling down the hill.

He then dropped down onto the scrubby grass, stomach down, his head to the side as he watched the sky patiently. The figure was nothing more than a dark blur, swerving around and circling about in search of the suddenly missing Scarecrow.

_This is suicide,_ something inside him thought, but he quelled the notion before he had time to determine whether it was the Scarecrow or the Prince speaking. He heaved a deep sigh, closing his eyes and willing himself to relax. It would be no use panicking now. To fight off the anxious boredom, he allowed his mind to swim through thick, sweet memories while he watched the skies.

_Nor laughing and showing him the necklace she had made all by herself. He'd been so proud of her._

The figure had vanished from the skies; had he been wrong in assuming that it had purposely been following him?

Those many outings with Tibbet and Crope, Elphaba and Glinda, Nessa and Nanny, Boq and Avaric down to the cafés and restaurants.

A sudden whistling _whoosh _sounded through the air, stopping with a faint_ thud. _The crackle of old boots crushing through the scrubby grass replaced it, drawing steadily nearer. Fiyero narrowed his eyes, focusing on the worn leggings that stepped hesitantly. He was almost close enough to touch…

A sudden jab to his side jarred his concentration. Reflexively, he rolled over and snatched the thing away, noticing in a brief moment that it was a broom handle. The figure stumbled back a few steps, clearly caught off guard. Fiyero lunged forward, seizing one of the stranger's skinny ankles. Whoever-it-was continued to struggle, and in so doing crashed to the ground in a glorious heap.

Quick as a hair, Fiyero leapt from his position and stood over the stranger, planting one foot firmly in the middle of his chest and pointing the bushy end of the broomstick fown into his haggard face, which wore an expression born more of surprise than genuine fear.

"What are you doing?" he demanded angrily, though he made no move to throw the Scarecrow off, for which Fiyero was grateful. He didn't doubt that in a real fight, he, Fiyero, would be the obvious underdog.

"What does it look like?" the prince retorted. "Tell me why you were following me!"

"Why were you headed for my castle?" the man snapped. Fiyero faltered. These questions were getting them nowhere. Hesitantly, he removed his foot, still gripping the broomstick. If it came to something, at least he would have something to defend himself with.

The man sat up tentatively, his eyes never leaving Fiyero, and rose to his feet. It was clear that he had spent a good deal of time in travel, and his emaciated form suggested that a few good meals were in order. As foreign as his weary appearance was, though, there was something familiar about the charcoal hair; and the sheer azure eyes seemed to reach out from the recesses of his memory.

He glanced quickly at the broom, then at the man again. There weren't many enchanted brooms in Oz… and fewer living souls, perhaps, that could claim Kiamo Ko as their own.

"Liir," he sputtered. The man hesitated, as though deciding whether or not he ought to admit it. Then, with the slightest of movements, he nodded.

"You've had your answer," Liir said. "Now I'd like mine. Why do you want to go to Kiamo Ko?"

Fiyero leaned back on his heels, planting the handle of the broom into the growns and leaning on it.

"My own reasons: he replied coolly. "Nothing dangerous. You can follow and see for yourself."

"That's hard to trust from my position," Liir accused. Fiyero glanced at the broom. Strange… when last he could recall, it had been a smouldering ruin. The boy must have repaired it.

With a jerk, he yanked it out of the ground and tossed it at Liir's feet, not entirely certain why he was doing it. It just felt as though it was the better choice. Liir picked up the broom, weighing it in his hands seemingly without realizing it, mentally checking the familiar handholds. Fiyero was struck by the familiarity the boy shared with his Elphaba… this semiconscious perfectionism and scientifically analytical instinct that had always set her apart. But he willed the thoughts away. Later… he'd ask Liir later.

Liir was eyeing him suspiciously, his grip on the broomstick had grown firmer, more confident, and for a moment Fiyero feared the boy (well, man technically) would attack him. After all, he had no idea what Liir had been through this past decade. Why should he be friendly to a Scarecrow who he knew only for a short time; the very same Scarecrow that had been a part of the party that had destroyed his caretaker and possible mother. His worries, however, didn't come to pass.

Liir relaxed his grip on the broomstick, still piercing the figure before him with his sharp eyes, and nodded.

"Very well," he said, grudgingly, and for a moment, Fiyero was struck with wonder at how guarded and untrusting that chubby little child had become in the past decade. "I'll go with you to Kiamo Ko. But if you do anything whatsoever to harm that place or any of the creatures that live there-"

"Don't worry," Fiyero assured him hurriedly, holding his hands out in a peaceful gesture. "What possible reason could I have to bring harm to that place? I'm supposed to be brainless, remember?"

Liir didn't seem to take humor at the joke, and Fiyero had to admit it wasn't very good. They stood for a few moments in awkward silence, neither certain of the next step, until the Scarecrow turned and began a westward ascent up the rising grasslands leading into the Kells. He half expected Liir to take flight again, but the boy only followed, his broom hoisted on his shoulder, his obsidian cape fluttering on the air behind him.

Their silence was companionable, comfortable even. Liir didn't bother to stop, and Fiyero didn't need to, therefore making the travel a straight-shot toward their destination. Once or twice, he almost tried to strike up conversation with the boy, but stopped himself. That would have done nothing but ruin the fragile companionship between them. In such a journey, one was best left to his own thoughts.

Fiyero couldn't bear to look back, lest he see something more in the boy that might be too painful to behold.

o-o-o-o

Chapter 6 is done at last. Please review, it makes me very happy. And tell anyone else about this fic because, come on, I have a sense of vanity to uphold.


	7. The Kells

Disclaimer: I don't own Wicked. No. Nein. Iie. Niet.

Author's Note: This was the first chapter that gave me real writer's block, until I sat down and made the words come out. Then they flowed easily. I'm a little sad my chapters aren't generally edited before they go up, but this will just have to make do. This is the chapter I KNOW a lot of you were waiting for, and it only gets better. Though I will have to request reviews. I know there are readers not reviewing. (of course, it's a fact that at least ninety percent of readers generally don't) Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. I hope it isn't going too slow.

Chapter 7: The Kells 

The journey to the Kells was silent and tedious, but Fiyero had little trouble trudging on, light or dark. Most of their stops were made for Liir's sake, either to eat, rest, or relieve himself behind one of the many rocks the were sprouting up from the sloping knolls that had taken over the landscape. For his part, Fiyero was somewhat glad of the company. He wouldn't be entering the castle alone, therefore he would be moved to compose himself.

No matter what greeted him after all this time.

During one of their breaks-Liir was stopping to eat some of the food that he said the maunts had given him-Fiyero caught sight of something wonderfully familiar and painfully distant.

A boy, his skin like sweet cocoa, crept around the rocks, his bare feet stepping carefully over the scrubby grass. His body was hardly clad at all, and in one hand he had but a spear. The Scarecrow's eyes widened at the sheer familiarity of it.

An Arjiki boy out a rite of passage.

"Liir," he murmured, gesturing to the broom-boy. Liir sat up, shoving the stale bread back into a pocket he had sewn in the witch's cloak, and crept forward, staring where Fiyero instructed. Fiyero swiftly explained that this boy they were watching was not to return home until he had found something out in the wilderness; either a vision or a familiar of some sort, and brought evidence back.

"I thought Arjiki practiced Unionism," Liir observed. Fiyero shook his head, the straw in his body swishing faintly.

"Most do, some still believe in Lurline," he explained. "These rites of passage have their own ways of fitting into either religion."

They hid among the rocks, monitoring the boy until he had departed to the south, still in search of whatever he was bound to find. Fiyero had never had a rite of passage himself. In the royal family, that was born of the ability to bear the pain of having the diamond tattoos engraved in the skin. Now what did he have to show for that?

That night, they started a small fire. Liir sat close to it, taking in warmth from the steadily chilling nights. Fiyero, however, stayed some distance away. He may have been a man in mind, but that could never reverse the fact that he was physically a Scarecrow.

The firelight danced in Liir's eyes, changing his pupils from human-like circles to cat-like slits to even a queer goat-like rectangle. Yet every time he tried to focus on them, they became human again.

"So, what did you do after the Wizard left?" Fiyero asked distantly, eager to sate the curiousity that had plagued him since he and Liir had been reunited. Liir glanced up and shrugged.

"A lot of things," he replied, rubbing his hands together. "And then, not much at all. I went to Southstairs, didn't find Nor," (Fiyero's chest ached, but he resisted the urge to grasp it) "I was on the street for a while until I joined the military. Went to Quadling country…" his voice trailed off and those strange blue eyes took on a wistful, distant quality. He was lost in some thought or memory that seemed to have a strong hold over him.

"What happened in the Quadling country?" Fiyero asked, trying not to change the subject to Nor too soon to seem suspicious.

"Things happened," Liir answered hastily, his voice growing soft for a moment, but strengthening as he went on. "I deserted the army after that, traveled to Kiamo Ko, went to the Bird Conference, ended up in the mauntery for a while, returned to the Emerald City to wreak havoc on the Emperor Apostle-"

"So that was you!" Fiyero interjected, leaning forward. "There were rumors that Liir the Witch's Son was the one to poison the Emperor's dragons. And the congregation of Birds in the shape of a witch…"

Liir nodded, his eyes still on the fire. Heaving a sigh, he brought his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms loosely around them.

"Yeah," Liir said, inclining his head slightly. "I thought, well, _we _thought it might be a decent tribute to her. I'm sure it gave Shell a nasty shock."

"I'm sure seeing some remain of his socially inacceptable family nearly gave him a heart attack," Fiyero noted. Liir glanced up, silently asking how the Scarecrow could have known of Shell's relation to Elphaba. Fiyero only shrugged; Now didn't seem to be the right time to say anything about himself or his way of knowing the intricacies of the Witch's family. It did seem the right time, though, to ask.

"Liir, _was_ Elphaba your mother? Did you ever find out?"

Liir faltered, his eyes widening infinitesimally, and turned his gaze back to the fire. The night grew silent but for the chirp of crickets scattered about the slope, and in the flickering light of the fire, Liir's eyes narrowed.

"Who am I going to tell?" Fiyero insisted, masking his genuine concern with the careless Scarecrow façade. "Really. I've got no hold in any kind of court, no family, friends, or allies to speak of. Personally, I've just been wandering these past years. I just want to know."

"Why are you so eager to visit Kiamo Ko, then?" Liir demanded, his whole form rigid with suspicion. "It isn't exactly a scenic spot for travelers."

"Because.," Fiyero faltered. Well, he couldn't really way why, could he? It was nothing more than an instinctive need to see that place again. "I just want to see it again. Where it all started or, ended, really. I have to see where she dies. I can't really explain it."

Something about his words seemed to comfort Liir, for his figure visibly relaxed as though pleased with the answer. Heaving a deep breath, the broom-boy yanked at a tuft of whispy grass, tossing it into the flames.

"I trust you," he said at a length. "I don't know why, but I don't think my instinct is wrong this time. Yes, I'm Elphaba's son, though it was only a recent discovery."

"How did you find out?" Fiyero inquired, clenching his gloved hands tightly. Liir stiffened, uncertain of whether or not to go on, but he had said too much, given away too much information to turn back.

"I-I have a daughter," he began cautiously. This threw Fiyero completely off.

"You're married?" he asked, but Liir only shook his head.

"No, I never married. And to be quite honest, I can never recall having ever had sex, much less with her," Liir paused and sighed again; it seemed that Fiyero wasn't the only one who had developed that particular habit. "She was a novice maunt taking care of me for a while. One day she just told me that she was pregnant and I was the father. When the baby was born, she was green."

Fiyero paused, trying this new information in his mind. Liir had suddenly gone from boy to father; father of a green-skinned granddaughter of Elphaba, the Wicked Witch of the West. And to add irony to the situation, he was sitting with Prince Fiyero of the Arjikis, the Scarecrow of Dorothy, and his…

His father.

Fiyero would have swallowed if he could, but settled for closing his eyes and shaking his head slightly. Sweet Oz… he was sitting next to his son after all. But he couldn't just come out and say it as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

He vaguely wondered who the mother was, though it didn't take long for the girl Candle to enter his mind. Liir had been to Quadling Country, so it was natural that he would be attracted to a Quadling girl, especially if she had been a maunt caring for him. And the way she had drawn back when he approached-clearly she was hiding the green skin of her daughter from any other lest the connection be made instantly and something happen to her.

It was sickeningly simple now that he had the facts.

"What is your baby's name?" Fiyero asked softly. Liir shrugged, tossing another wad of grass onto the fire-more from the need to do something than an actual desire for warmth.

"Fae," he murmured. Fiyero suddenly felt and warm, ill and wonderful at the same time.

"_Elphaba Elphie Fabala Fae…"_

"_Yero my Hero…"_

"I think it's something Fiyero used to call her," Liir went on. "I might have picked it up from my childhood. Probably some time in Kiamo Ko. She never talked about him much, but she never talked at all in the mauntery."

"Mauntery?" Fiyero choked. Liir glanced at him, his brows knitted in concern.

"Yes, I spent my early childhood in the Cloister of Saint Glinda."

Fiyero suddenly felt very light and fragile. So that image he had gotten, the thing Mother Yackle had said… that _had_ been his Elphaba. Defeated, crushed, forced into hiding.

How had he let this happen?

"Are you alright?" Liir asked, his voice betraying his regret at having said anything. Fiyero jerked his head in either a nod or a shake-he couldn't really tell which.

"I'm fine," his voice cracked. "It's just… it's just a lot of information to take in at once."

Liir said nothing more, and they fell into a silence that brought both comfort and unease. Above, the stars twinkled knowingly, laughing at the foolish Scarecrow who hadn't realized any of this sooner; who had to be told everything second-hand, after the fact. The Kells loomed above them, suddenly ominous and foreboding.

What would his return to Kiamo Ko bring then, knowing what he did now? Suddenly, the urge to ask about Nor seemed insignificant. Maybe he didn't _want_ to find out about her now.

The fire burned down to a pile of glowing embers, crackling faintly and throwing up only the slightest sparks into the night air. Liir's faint snore was a blessing in itself. It allowed him the comfort of knowing that he was finally alone to his thoughts.

At a length, he stretched out against the scrubby golden grass, allowing his mind to wander. When the strange, unessential sleep came, he welcomed it with open arms.

o-o-o-o

The truth has come at last; I hope you enjoyed it. Please review; an egocentric writer begs you.


	8. The Puzzle of Relation

Disclaimer: No, I do not own Wicked. Bah.

Author's Note: Okay, I am so sorry for the late update. I gave up broadway for Lent and my muse (who is the Phantom of the Opera) was pretty miffed. So in my weeks of writer's block, I forgot to type this one early. I'll have more for you once I listen to Wicked again. And on another note, HERE IT IS! The chapter you've been bugging me about... Okay, not THE chapter, but the second one to THAT one...

Read, Review, and Enjoy!

The Puzzle of Relation

The Kells loomed now above them with such a powerful majesty that Fiyero could not help but feel invigorated in their presence. How could he have possible found them ugly or foreboding in the last time he'd come through? Well… with the Lion's skittishness, the Tin Man's cynicism, and Dorothy's girlish fear, it was only understandable that a brainless Scarecrow would be easily swayed by their doubts.

Liir, however, seemed not to share his fervor, due to his frequent need to rest. He was so malnourished from what must have been years of poor care – from which his body was only just recovering – that the journey must have been long and arduous for him. Out of either a will to keep a closer eye on the Scarecrow or a desire not to be seen, Liir never took to the sky, thus slowing their progress. Fieyro didn't mind.

During the breaks in which the broom boy rested, Fiyero took the opportunity to look the boy over in a sort of fevered attempt to find relation. The shining charcoal hair was undeniably Elphaba's, as was the fire in his eyes. Did Liir even realize the fierceness in his blood? Or had he assumed that none of Elphaba's strength had passed onto him? As for his heritage as an eminent Arjiki – a fact that Fiyero doubted the boy had realized – there was a depressingly absent trace. His skin was as pale and Eastern as any Munchkinlander's. Perhaps it was the color Elphaba's might have been under different circumstances. The only similarity between them that Fiyero could see was a certain timidness; one that he had shed during his days at Shiz. Before it became a girl's school.

But before he could discern anymore, Liir always glanced suspiciously up, ready to go on.

There were times when the thought occurred to him that Liir was not his child at all. What if Elphaba had found another man, another lover, and it had borne his child? The very idea always filled him with an unhappy pain. It would, of course, serve him right; he had committed adultery against Sarima to be with Elphaba. Surely she deserved a lover who could give her his undivided attention and compassion. But that did little to calm his pain. He'd loved her so completely. Was it too much to hope that her affections had been comparable in passion>

He had stilled these thoughts with the comfort that Liir appeared to be roughly as old as he had been dead. Elphaba surely couldn't have found another lover so quickly! And between Yackle's description and his own memories… No. She couldn't have taken another. Liir was his child.

So why was it so difficult to say anything?

In the days that passed, he was cautious with his words and questions. When at last he had the composure to inquire about Nor, he was careful to voice it as a question of casual interest. If nothing else, Liir could match his mother in paranoia, if not confidence, and Fiyero took to badgering him about her, praying he didn't sound desperate. At last, Liir conceded to answer one night around the campfire.

"She's alive," he said, and Fiyero had to fight to keep from breathing out in relief. Liir went on, proving his alien ability to trust in doing so. "As far as I know, she's healthy. I haven't seen her myself since she was kidnapped."

Fiyero nodded, barely keeping his immense joy in check. Nor, his Nor, was alive and well.

"How do you know what you know about her?" The Scarecrow asked, trying to sound careless. "I mean, is she really doing enough for you to hear or is it just gossip?"

Liir eyed him carefully, as he always did before answering such questions. Seizing some of the sparse kindling about the mountain pass and tossing it into the fire, he answered softly.

"The Princess Nastoya alerted me before she died," Liir answered, his eyes turning to rest on the Scarecrow's face. Fiyero glanced away. "As you recall, she and I had an accord. Nor certainly hasn't lost her spirit. She's the one who's been writing 'Elphaba Lives' all over Oz. I can only assume she's doing this as a part of an Underground to promote Elphaba's ideals and beliefs in the place of the Emperor Apostle, rather than just being batty. Apparently she got into some girl's school, Shiz. You know, that's supposed to be where Glinda and Elphaba went."

Fiyero fell silent, wringing his fingers together anxiously. Shiz! So his girl had gotten an education, and at the same college he'd gone to (granted it had been co'ed back then). She was vigilantly carving her place in the world. If only he could see her again; but explaining his physical appearance to her might prove more difficult than explaining it to Liir.

If he ever _could_ get around to explaining it to Liir.

Later that night, as the broom boy drifted off in blissful sleep, Fiyero lay awake, staring up at the sky. The great inky expanse was dusted with a hundred thousand miniscule diamonds. It was all just as he had remembered it, peering up around the craggy peaks of the Kells. Was his daughter looking up at the same sky? Did she know she was an aunt? That her father-turned-grandfather lived?

He covered his eyes with one arm, chuckling softly despite humself, though careful not to awaken Liir. A grandfather. He hadn't asked about his granddaughter, Fae, deeming that to be too dangerous a place to tread. As much as his thought went out to Nor, he always managed to thing of _her_ as well; his beautiful green-skinned descendent.

He had been so close to her in the mauntery. Close enough to touch, even. And he hadn't had the sense to realize the relation at the time. Someday, he would have to see her with his own eyes, though it would surely be difficult. After all, why would a nervous Quadling allow a strange Scarecrow to see her freakish child, especially considering the dubious heritage beneath the emerald skin. Perhaps Liir would allow it, supposing Fiyero could ever gain his trust.

Which brought him right back to the predicament of telling Liir that he, a Scarecrow, was truly his father.

Liir surely realized that Nor was his sister. Had she, in return, deciphered her relation to the Witch's Bor? Or did she believe herself to be the only surviving member of the Arjiki royal family? How terribly lonely she must be, in either case.

"Nor," he murmured softly, tasting her name on his lips as a child savored sweetmeats. "My lovely Nor… Your father does miss you,"

Liir coughed suddenly in his sleep, shifting loudly. Fiyero immediately silenced himself, cursing his nostalgia mentally. No… the boy-Man, he had to keep reminding himself-hadn't heard him. He was out like a rock.

Nevertheless, Fiyero continued his thoughts and distant promises in silence, praying that Nor was looking up at the sky, just keen enough to catch them on the breeze.

o-o-o-o

The next day, Liir stopped to rest even more frequently than before. But whenever the Scarecrow turned to glance at him, he caught Liir's eyes and had to fumble with a rather foolish excuse. (Are you done resting? How much you humans rest!) It would seem that the tables had turned, and Fiyero found himself the object of speculation.

The day passed in relative silence, broken only by the crunch of grass and later gravel beneath their feet as they ascended the great mountains of the Kells. With each step, Fiyero could feel his anticipating gorwing until he was certain he would burst. Behind him, Liir had fallen almost uncharacteristically silent. The Scarecrow glanced back, impatiently, only to catch the broom boy's intent blue eyes boring into his burlap face. His stomach turned unexpectedly, and he uselessly cleared his throat and turned away, pointing up at the distant craggy peaks.

"Well, ah, we'd better get going," he stammered uneasily. "Kiamo Ko is just this way…"

His voice sounded oddly false, even to his ears, and he hadn't a doubt that Liir didn't believe him either. With another uncomfortable cough, he turned and began making his way once more up the pass, but a firm hand suddenly gripped his shoulder and, with a strength he had not considered the boy possessing, he was through back ungracefully onto the ground. Before he could even try to get up, the handle of the broomstick was shoved in a threateningly close proximity to his note.

"Now wait just a minute," The Scarecrow cried, confused, but Fiyero hurried to change to a more offensive rebuttle. "What exactly have I done to deserve this?"

"Who are you?" Liir demanded hotly. Fiyero, taken aback, tried to remind the boy of just who the _Scarecrow_ was, to which his only response was Liir reaching back into his pack and pulling out the flints he regularly used to light the campfire. Fiyero felt his eyes widen almost unconsciously and he held up his hands in defense.

"Hey now," he argued feebly, raising himself into a tentative crouch. "I don't know what this is about, but-"

"Why did you call out Nor's name last night?" Liir demanded fiercely. "Why are you always staring at me and asking after my business?"

Fiyero faltered. Well, now should be as good a time as any to finally explain their relation, but the setting seemed terribly wrong. He was hardly in the position to tell Liir the sky was blue, and Liir was hardly in a position to believe him. Carefully, inclining his head so as not to provoke the broom boy, he stood, his arms still raised in the air. For a moment, his eyes flicked uneasily from the flints in Liir's left hand to the broomstick in his right.

"You know," he jibed, dancing around the topic at hand. "You can't very well light me on fire when you've got a broomstick in one hand. Might make it a little bit tricky."

"You'd be surprised," Liir answered darkly. "Tell me now; who are you and what are your motives?"

Fiyero hesitated, clenching and unclenching his fists nervously as he lowered them. This was bound to be the most awkward family reunion in the entire history of Oz. He took a deep, useless breath as though preparing for a plunge into the deepest of lakes.

"I have asked about you and your relations," he replied, each word carefully

measured on his lips. "Because I am a man who is interested in the state of his

progeny."

Liir's firm grip on the broom faltered, and Fiyero could visibly see the

slackening of his resolve. But in a half a heartbeat it returned, and the blue

eyes turned steely as knives.

"Are you raving mad," Liir insisted bitterly. "Or did you just decide that you

didn't like having a mind? I want the truth! Now!"

"Well, I can't very well give it to you if you won't take it," Fiyero

reprimanded lightly, drawing his posture into a somewhat more dignified form.

"Tell me, can you truly say that FIyero' body was ever found?"

Liir's resolve slipped again, as though a part of his was incapable of denying

the inescapable truth before him. Was it possible that the boy had some sort of Sight to allow this clarity, or were his instincts exceptionally keen? Hesitantly, he took the tip of he broomstick and pushed it down into a less than threatening position. Liir's eyes darkened again, but he didn't raise the broom.

"Any beggar in the Emerald City could claim that under the same pretenses as you," he said, his voice dripping with acid. "Give me three reasons I should believe you and not burn you where you stand."

"Because," Fiyero fumbled, trying to pick out the right words. "Because I remember the way Irji and Nor looked out the window in the mornings to see the last stars. Because Elphaba was soft despite all her hardness in a way that you had to get to know her to see, and…" he swallowed, suddenly realizing the sentimental vapidness of his words, but unable to come up with anything better at the moment. "And because you have her hair… and that stubbornness that I loved so much about her."

For what felt like an eternity, neither of them moved, and though Liir's stony mask betrayed no emotion, Fiyero could tell what was happening in his head. Liir was sorting through the fats, both logical and emotional, and struggling to allow himself to drift in one direction. He was forming theories, keeping some, abandoning others, and surveying the very likelihood of what he was being told. At last, he drew back, shoving the broom handle into the ground, no longer threatening. He did not loosin his grip on the flints.

"If what you say I true," Liir said carefully, but Fiyero cut him off.

"Look, all I know is that one moment I was being beaten by the Gale Force and than," he swallowed, pushing away the sharp pain and sickening lurch that always accompanied that particular memory. "And then I was in Munchkinland, with Dorothy, and I couldn't remember anything."

Liir shifted his grip on the flint rocks, shaking his head slightly. Fiyero's heart fell.

"You don't believe me," he stated. Liir stared at him coldly, his eyes confirming it.

"Would you believe yourself in my position?"

Fiyero sighed and glanced away despairingly. This was just one of the many scenarios he had feared might occur in the case that he tried to tell Liir the truth. Or, at least, what he perceived to be the truth. Several silent moments passed, in which neither could come up with any grand words to ease the tension. At last, Liir cautiously venture to say something.

"Knowing Elpbaba," he murmured. "It's possible that she magicked you without realizing it."

"She always did doubt herself," Fiyero admit, a swell of relief rising in him. "Do you believe me?"

"I accept the possibility," Liir said sharply, leaving no room for doubt. "You could be Fiyero and my father, or your could be lying, or you could have mistakenly regained Fiyero's memories."

Fiyero nodded. The idea that he had somehow regained memories not his own had crossed his mind before, but the feelings and images were far too real to be considered false.

"We'll just have to find out once we reach Kiamo Ko," he said. Liir nodded and, without a word, replaced the flint in his pack. Together, they started up on the pass, and for the life of him, Fiyero couldn't take his eyes off the boy. Lirr's words, steeped in suspicion, still rang in his head.

You could be Fiyero and my father…

_My father._

There was to be no more skipping away from the tangled mess of his relations any longer. This was a rocky start, but his instincts wouldn't let him shy away from the facts any longer.

_This is my son. And I am his father._

_o-o-o-o_

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	9. Kiamo Ko

Author's Note: Please don't stone me to death, or anything else. I've had this pre-written for some time, and I just got around to typing it. The next few chapters, though, will probably be typed directly as I write them. Well, here we are. Fiyero finally reached Kiamo Ko!

Disclaimer: Don't own it. Duh.

Chapter Nine: Kiamo Ko

The early morning greeted Kiamo Ko with rolling fog billowing off the stony castle, shot through with the light of dawn. As Fiyero caught sight of it, he froze on the path, much to the irritation of Liir. If he had had breath, it would have surely been lost. His home. It was still his castle, even now as it stood abandoned and desolate.

Liir cleared his throat and poked the Scarecrow roughly with the broom handle. Fiyero jumped, his legs automatically stepping into his usual lanky gait.

Upon drawing nearer to the castle, his elated mood suddenly deflated. Bird and monkey droppings caked the walls. Window shutters had been obviously repaired. Bits of stone had chipped off where no one had bothered to apply mortar, and the once fragrant gardens had turned to the weeds and yellowed grass.

"What's this?" he demanded, whirling around and gesturing at the castle. Liir glamced up in confusion and raised an eyebrow.

"That's a window," the broom boy said carefully, as though speaking to a child. Fiyero glanced up, realizing he had pointed to a particularly decrepit window with collapsed glass. Vexed, he shook his head, gesturing with broader movements.

"Not _that_," he cried. "I mean _this!_ All of this!" He felt a swell of wounded pride rise up in his chest. A man's home was his castle, so it only went to say that his _castle_ was his haven, his sanctuary! To see it in such disrepair!

"Oh," Liir breathed, catching on at last. "It's been like this for some time. It used to be much worse. Now the monkeys at least know how to take care of it."

Fiyero suppressed a shudder, trying to banish the image of an even more decrepit Kiamo Ko from his mind.

Together, they ascended the last few feet p the path and up to the door where Liir had to kick the door a few times until the hinges loosened enough to open it. (Being a Scarecrow, Fiyero couldn't have done any more good kicking it than thumping it with a loose bale of hay)

For all the squalor of the outside, Fiyero was pleasantly surprised to discover that it was reasonable well kept inside. Dirty, of course, but it was clear that someone or something was making an effort to sweep and dust.

"Back again, are you?" a raspy voice called. Around the corner hobbled a bent and aged Monkey… or was it a monkey? No. it had to be a Monkey. Even Elphaba couldn't teach an animal to talk, could she? The Animal's ancient wings-courtesy of Elphaba's spells and experiments-dragged on the floor as long forgotten appendages. The Scarecrow suppressed a shudder. It was hard to forget them, and Fiyero had no happy memories from his past about flying monkeys to soothe his anxieties.

The Monkey glanced at him and sneered, baring dull yellow fangs that seemed oddly out of place on his gray gentle face.

"Now what are you doing bringing _him_ here?" he snapped. "He's probably come to loot the place after killing the witch and you've led him straight to our door! No, Liir, don't shake your head like that! I don't care, we don't want him here."

"Chistery," Liir sighed, kneeling down to stare the Monkey in the eyes. "If anyone was going to loot the castle, they would have done it by now. I'm just here to keep an eye on him. He would have come anyway."

Chistery snorted and glared up at Fiyero again, his eyes filled with distrust. Fiyero frowned, biting back his irritation. Of course Kiamo Ko had gone to the flying monkeys. Of course they didn't trust him. But it was still aggravating to the core.

"Well," Chistery snapped, turning and hobbling off again. "Nanny'll want to see you, I expect. But pay her no mind, she's having one of her days."

Liir stood, his blue eyes wide in surprise.

"Nanny?" he gasped in a tone that more gave the message of "Is-that-woman-still-living?" than a tender "Oh-how-I've-missed-her."

It suddenly dawned on Fiyero that the Thropps and their numerous relations and friends must have been extremely long-lived. If he recalled correctly, wasn't Nanny the same crone who had raised Elphaba's mother?

How old was that woman?

"Come on," Liir instructed, following the Monkey downt he hall. Fiyero didn't dare refuse.

Nanny was propped up in a bed by what looked like every pillow in the house (and drooling sufficiently on what he remembered to be Six's favorite blue silk one.) At their arrival, she glanced up and grinned toothlessly.

"Liir, what a nice day to see you again," she gurgled. "Are you feeling better? Nasty of you to get stuck in the well like that. Elphaba was distraught."

Liir nodded, raising his eyebrows in doubt that Elphaba could have ever been distraught. His expressions were becoming easier to read. Nanny glanced up at Fiyero, opening her mouth and furrowing her brows. After a moment of being unable to identify him, however, she seemed to forget he was there and turned back to Liir.

"Dear boy, you haven't eaten in days, have you? I'd have thought you'd catch some fish in the well, but you were never good at fishing, were you? Oh well then. We should get you some lunch. _Elphaba_!"

Her sudden wail caught them off guard, and Chistery covered his ears with gnarled paws. Nanny frowned, perturbed by the returning silence.

"Elphaba!" she cried again. "Get out of that damned tower and come feed the boy! Elphaba! Oh, you ungrateful little-"

"I'll get her," Liir interrupted. "She probably fell asleep again."

He turned to leave, nudging Fiyero as he did so. The Scarecrow followed him to the kitchen where a scant variety of food, some in various stages of decay, lay in a haphazard for of organization. There was a great assortment of autumn vegetables from the recent harvest. More than enough to feed Nanny, Liir, and half the monkeys through the winter, provided they didn't mind a great deal of radishes and potatoes.

"The villagers bring them up," Liir explained, grabbing an old loaf of bread and a knife. He proceeded then to cut the mold off, getting a few clean slices. "I think they feel sorry for her. Would you mind cutting some cheese? Or if you can't find any, try radishes. She won't mind."

Fiyero rummaged through the cluttered drawers until he located a knife and a few fresh radishes. Wiping them off on his pant leg (he didn't trust the kitchen rags) he joined Liir at the table. The broom-boy was now pouring two small glasses half full of sherry from a chipped bottle.

"So," the Scarecrow ventured cautiously. "What's this business about getting caught in a well?"

Liir replaced the cork in the bottle and shrugged, putting it back in its cabinet.

"It happened years ago," he explained. "Manek, Irji, Nor and I were playing. We were hiding from Nor. Manek offered to lower me down to hide in the well. He must have forgotten about me. I don't really remember the next few days after they got me out, but somehow Manek died."

Fiyero paused in his chopping. So, Manek hadn't died with Irji and Sarima. He glanced around to see Liir's hard eyes.

"How," he choked, but he didn't need to ask any further.

"An icicle," Liir went on icily. "It implaed his head. Unlikely, I know."

Fiyero's grip tightened on the knife handle. Was he being unfair, getting so worked up over a quick painless death for his eldest born and ignoring the slow suffering of his youngest, Liir? No, he decided. After all, Liir was still alive.

"I know what you'd be thinking if you were Fiyero," Liir supplied. "And you're probably right. Manek's death may not have been intentional, but it wasn't an accident. And you know what? I think Elphaba killed him without meaning to."

"Why are you telling me this?" Fiyero snapped bitterly. He had only asked about the well… he didn't need all this.

Liir glanred and crossed his arms. Fiyero suddenly noticed the absence of the broom. When had it been put away?

"Because Fiyero would have the right to know," Liir retorted. "You still want to be Fiyero, don't you?"

Fiyero narrowed his eyes and turned back to the vegetables before him.

"The radishes are done. Let's take them to Nanny.

Watching Nanny and Liir and Chistery eat was awkward enough, considering he didn't have to eat. Added to the fact that one distrusted him, one ignored him, and the other didn't even seem to realize he was there, Fiyero would have very much loved an excuse to leave at that moment.

"Such a nice lunch," Nanny said, wedging a radish slice between two pieces of bread and gnawing on it.

"It's breakfast," Liir muttered, but she didn't seem to hear him.

"This Lurlinemas will be lovely," Nanny went on, spitting out bits of bread and radish onto the blue silk pillow. "That frost must be late this year. Not an inch of snow. Why, the holiday is only a few days away."

Fiyero crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. He hadn't been bold enough to join them on the bed, and the three of them hardly seemed to care about his absence. Vaguely, he wondered how often it was now that Nanny mistook two months for a few days. Liir and Chistery hardly seemed to listen to Nanny's babbling anymore.

"I wish Elphaba would come down and help decorate," Nanny complained loudly. "She always insists she's agnostic so she doesn't have to do any work. Why, dear Frex was the only one who could make her sing a single hymn. Except for those Shiz friends of hers. Lovely voice, Elphaba has."

Liir stopped his chewing, swallowing quickly and clearing his throat.

"She sand?" he repeated, trying not to sound incredulous. "Elphaba?"

"Surprise," Fiyero chuckled from his spot on the wall. "She was always full of surprises. It's a pity you never heard her. She really was enchanting."

"And how would you-" Chistery began in a low growl, but Nanny cut him off.

"Fiyero?" she gasped in a delighted tone. "Why, when did you get here? I haven't seen you since Nessa's graduation. My, how you've changed!"

Fiyero all but jumped off the wall, baffled by the recognition in this senile crone. It was like a cool drink after days on end in a desert. Liir was shocked and rather incensed.

"Nanny," he insisted almost desperately. "That isn't Fiyero! He's dead, remember? Remember what Sarima and Elphaba said?"

"Oh, you silly boy," Nanny snapped irritably. "Bother those fools, that boy is standing right there!"

Fiyero coughed lightly, awkward with being called a 'boy'. But if she still wanted to call him that, she could. Why, she could call him Ozma and he wouldn't have cared. Liir scowled, but Fiyero ignored him, jumping off the wall and rushing to Nanny's side. She surveyed him with large rheumy eyes, struggling to hold onto this brief moment of comprehension.

"Nanny," Fiyero pleased. "You remember Elphaba. W hat happened to her?"

Nanny looked confused for a moment, still convinced that Elphaba was alive in her tower. Then, memory took hold and her sagging face drooped in understanding.

"Poor Elphie," she lamented sadly. "Wretched death. That girl didn't even know what she was doing. You know Dorothy was actually trying to help put the fire out?"

Fiyero nodded, not really caring about Dorothy or her never-ending good intentions.

"What about her remains?" he asked urgently, leaning forward. What did you do with them?"

Again, Nanny looked dazed and confused, trying to catch an ephemeral strand of memory before it flitted away.

"Awful mess," she mumbled. "Awful awful. Wouldn't let Liir have a look at it, he was so young. Most of her went through the trapdoor in the floor. The rest was all over the stone. Terrible, terrible mess. I had the monkeys gather what they could and put it in a pot for me. They got quite a lot, but it wasn't her/"

"A trapdoor?" Fiyero urged eagerly. "In her tower?" But Nanny had lapsed once again into oblivious stupor and no longer seemed to notice anyone was in the room with her. Fiyero sat up, disappointed that the old woman's attention hadn't lasted longer. But maybe it had lasted long enough.

He slid silently off the bed and made for the door. Almost instantly, Liir and Chistery had jumped down, each seizing a portion of his clothing. Fiyero heaved a sigh. If they pulled too hard, his straw might fall out.

"I told you he was here to loot," Chistery growled. Fiyero rolled his eyes and glanced down at them.

"I'm just going to take a look at that trapdoor," he assured them calmly. "That's all. You can come with me if you like. I promise I won't steal anything."

Liir stared at him a few moments with sharp eyes, then nodded and released the back of the Scarecrow's shirt. Chistery glared distrustfully for some time longer until he, too, let go, muttering angrily under his breath. Fiyero nodded to them in thanks and hurried away, trying to remember where the tower was.

The tower was a mess, either from the negligence of Elphaba's sheer obsession that overrode the importance of cleanliness. Fiyero grimaced and stepped over several toppled jars, frowning at the mess. The workplace was coated with soot and dust, books and jars were scattered every which way. It looked every bit to be a witch's tower, right down to the cracked crystal ball in the center of the room. When did Elphaba decide she could be a witch? Sha'd always had an interest in Kumbricia, but she'd constantly insisted she was useless for magic.

Absently, he began walking around the tower, running his gloved hand over the crowded bookshelf and cluttered desk. He couldn't really feel anything, but it was a relief to be able to touch these things, and know that she had been here in his house.

He paused when he came to the bed, still rumpled and unmade. The mattress was lumpy and soft, the blankets crushed to suggest that she had slept on top of them and jumped quickly.

Her last few days must have been restless.

He turned and began searching the floor, trying to remember where she had melted. There! He grimaced at the sight of the long browned something (Perhaps liquefied Elphaba) between the stones. He recalled what Nanny had said about a trapdoor, where the rest of her was. He remembered days long past when he and Sarima had taken turns lowering each other into it when they had been younger.

He dropped to his knees and felt for a familiar notch in the stone tile. Perhaps Elphaba, too, had discovered it. What if she'd pulled the tile off in case of just such an event as Dorothy's water bucket and dropped down when everyone had thought she was melting? After all, that might have been an illusion. She was a a witch.

What if she still hid down there, living? Nanny's deranged babbling about Elphaba might have been the result of Elphaba's occasional appearance. But then, why would she do something so desperade and cowardly? It wasn't like her at all.

At last, he found the correct tile and pulled away, revealing an ancient trapdoor of petrified wood that blended almost seamlessly with the stone of the room.

Saying a quick prayer to the Unnamed God (Though it wouldn't make any difference if she was dead) he wrenched open the door and peered down.

The secret room below he witch's tower was nothing more than a shallow circular cavern with light seeping in through cracks in the stone. It could only be reached through the trapdoor and was small enough to go unnoticed, while large enough to be comfortable. His ancestor who had overseen the rise of Kiamo Ko had built it as a safe room for the royal family, though time had transformed it into a playroom for royal children.

Fiyero was tempted to light a candle to take down with him, but decided against it. Darkness was better than fire any day.

He jumped down and landed with a 'whump' several meters below. The best thing about being made of straw was the easy langing.

Standing and glancing around, Fiyero gave his eyes a few moments to adjust to the dim light that stone through the trapdoor and the cracks in the wall.

There was no Elphaba. An awful ache clawed at his chest, but he fought to suppress it. Of course not, common sense claimed that she was dead. He'd been foolish to let his hopes rise.

Fiyero lowered his head, exhaling deeply. It was then that he noticed the exceptionally large clump of dark dust, the same that he had seen on the floor above. He dropped to his knees, hardly daring to touch the precious remains.

"Hey!" a voice suddenly rang out. Fiyero glanced up to see Liir's head glaring down at him from above. "What are you doing down there?"

"Liir," he called back. "We need to go talk to Nanny. I need to know where that urn is."


	10. Resurrection of a Witch

A/N: I don't believe I can possibly apologize properly… but know that I considered attempting it. You may now throw water on me and see if I melt. On a happier note, here it is! The grand update we've all been waiting for!

Disclaimer: Nope. Nuh uh. Don't own it.

Chapter Ten: Resurrection of a Witch

Fiyero sat alone in the tower, running his hands over the urn smooth, brown exterior. Inside lay Elphaba. His Elphaba-Elphie-Fabala-Fae. She never lived to know she had a granddaughter. From the way Liir spoke, she probably never even came to full realization that she had a son. She didn't know what her brother had done, what had happened to the wizard, or even poor, childless Glinda.

Had she known who he was all those years ago when she'd send her bees and monkeys to kill him? Probably not, or she simply wouldn't have tried to kill him. But had she at least suspected? Had she known the effect her spell would have?

Or had the isolation she had resigned herself to proven to be too much for her to bear?

"I'm sorry," he sighed, tracing a crack along the top of the urn with a star-stuffed glove. "I should have listened to you."

In a way, his death had been poetic justice, just as her suffering had been. Though he had always cared for Sarima, their relationship was utterly passionless. Elphaba had given him such life, such vitality, that he hadn't thought twice about adultery. It was like a first romance for him. Each time they made love, it was as new and exciting to him as it had been for any schoolboy, never mind that he was married with children. Married with children to him was as common to him as breathing was to other boys. He'd never understood the extent of his sin.

But that didn't make adultery any less adultery. Which was why, in all honesty, he had deserved death. Each blow upon his body had been earned with kisses in the dark. Each cracking bone represented a whisper of affection in her ear. And the pool of blood that he'd drowned in at the moment of his death, that was his love for Elphaba.

Then she had suffered. She'd gone into shock, given birth, lived in isolation and the possibility of madness. Despair, anger, and loneliness were her constant enemies until she'd died at the hands of sweet Dorothy. Had Elphaba realized what beauty there was when she'd beheld that girl, as so many others had? Certainly Dorothy was dreamy and a little bit shallow. Her good deeds were seldom thought through, and often resulted in more trouble than they were worth, but at least she tried to do good.

"Oh Elphaba," he murmured. "Was it fate that led both of us to that girl? You at the end of your life and me near the beginning of my new one?"

But Elphaba didn't answer. She couldn't. It had been years and years since she could, and all of Oz had moved on without their precious Wicked Witch of the West. All but a few broken individuals.

"We've suffered because we loved each other," he went on. "But I'll never call it a mistake. We both died, but because of us, there is new life in our son, Liir. Did you know he was ours? And he has a daughter, Fae. And he says she has your skin. I'll bet she's absolutely beautiful, just as you were."

His words broke off in a dry sob, but he couldn't shed any of the tears he wished for. He no longer cared that it was 'unmanly' to cry; it was human. He wanted to be human, he wanted tears, and he wanted life.

"I want you to come back, Elphaba," he whispered. "I've tried. Liir found your spellbook for me, but I can't read it. I wish you were here. You could make me human again, and Liir might finally believe who I am. We could be a family, like we always wished."

And how he wished for it. But some wishes, no matter how deeply they were desired, would always be out of reach.

o-o-o

Liir knelt at the bottom of the secret room beneath Elphaba's study, a burning lantern clutched in one hand, the Grimmerie in the other, and the urn tucked under his arm. Left to years of neglect and decay, the room had become a filthy, dusty apartment for vermin. The Scarecrow whined about his lack of acute senses, but he didn't realize how fortunate he was to be spared the stench of the droppings and dead rats that littered the place.

A cold draft blew through, causing Liir to shiver so violently he almost dropped the urn. This was probably going to be a waste of time, but he'd already started. He might as well make the effort worth it.

Setting the candle down on the dusty floor, Liir found the dried green dust that had perhaps been drippings of Elphaba's feet at the time of her death. He took the urn in his hands and wondered for a moment whether there was any sort of ceremony he ought humor. As far as he knew, there were no common phrases when one mixed powdered-mother in an attempt to resurrect her. Perhaps 'May Elphaba breathe again' or 'See you soon' or 'Here goes nothing'. None of them sounded remotely proper.

Abandoning such formalities, Liir removed the lid of the urn and poured carefully, trying not to allow any of the powder to puff up into the air. He hated to imagine what would happen if he breathed it in before his attempt.

When he was satisfied, Liir took the candle and flipped open the book, which seemed to be comprised entirely of strange squiggles and symbols that didn't make the slightest sense. Why had Elphaba bothered to make such a fuss about hiding it when no one could read it anyway?

Nevertheless, be began to struggle with reading the foreign tongue. Occasionally, a word or phrase would stick out to him and he would read it hurriedly, feeling the strangeness on his tongue, and the odd sense that he was one of the few living souls that could say it. It was empowering and maddening all at once.

The candle flickered with each gust of wind, forcing Liir to abandon his efforts frequently in order to shield the tiny flame, often forcing himself to begin anew with whatever page he had been on. The night wore on, hours ticking by as the moon reached its zenith. The candle burned low, threatening to die of expiration rather than wind, but Liir couldn't stop. He felt he was close to something…

His vision began to blur. Damn, not now! He rubbed his eyes, but the dazed, sleepy vision would not go away. Perhaps it was time to a break.

He gazed back down at the pages, the words swimming together in a fuzz. Then, in the back of his mind, he heard a voice.

"Eleka namen namen atum atum eleka namen…"

"Elphaba!" he cried, whirling around, but he remained alone in the secret room. Elphaba's remains sat as they had since the beginning of the night, untouched. Not even the wind had managed to stir them, and yet…

"Let his flesh not be torn," her voice echoed, almost pleading as if to the All-God. Liir listened intently as the witch's memory begged for what sounded like a hundred different things. It sounded as though she was trying to wish an immortal man into existence.

Whatever it was, it had to have taken place after Liir's conception, or else he would not be aware of it with such clarity. But he could never in his life recall Elphaba being the sort of woman to beg for anything.

Except…

"It's a spell," he gasped, turning back to the book and blindly turning the pages, guiding himself with intuition. Of course! It was the spell she had used to attempt to bring Fiyero back. Surely it had failed, but… perhaps she had just been saying the wrong incantations.

He paused on the page, and though the outlandish symbols couldn't have made less sense, he understood them perfectly. Finally, he was going to see some results!

At the very brink of speaking them aloud, however, Liir paused. What was he doing, fooling around with Elphaba's spellbook in her tower in the middle of the night? He had no idea what sort of effect his reading them aloud would have. Initially, the goal had been to attempt to bring Elphaba back.

He had not yet considered that it might work.

In the past, he had never doubted to act instinctually on a vision, but was this an urge he truly wanted to follow through? After all, there was no telling what the world would be like if Elphaba returned to it. She was short-tempered, selfish, and as loveable as spinebush. Her affection would freeze beer, and all the compassion in her heart was given to the animals, and even they had been neglected in her care. Whatever afterlife she might dwell in, would she really want to return? Would Elphaba wish to discover that the brat Liir who had continually been a plague on her conscience was, in fact, her child? That her brother had replaced her most bitter foe, and all that she had worked for had almost completely unraveled in her absence?

Thinking carefully on it, Liir realized that he certainly wouldn't want it.

But then, Elphaba didn't think as he did.

Rubbing his eyes once again, Liir began to read the incantation.

"Eleka namen namen atum atum eleka namen," he murmured. "Eleka namen namen atum atum eleka namen…"

There the words trailed off for a time, leaving Liir to his own devices. What did he wish to be returned? Liir closed his eyes and swallowed.

"Let her body be flesh and let her flesh be solid. Let her soul be returned and her skin be unburned, let her eyes be bright, let her mind be keen. Let her know peace and patience, let her return. Let her live."

He turned back to the book, repeating the incantation again and again, his tongue occasionally stumbling upon words or phrases he hadn't heard the memory-Elphaba pleading in his ear.

"Let her nose be long, her chin sharp, her fingers thin, her body slim, her hair black, her tongue quick. Let her passion thrive and her blood flow. Let her be as mortal as she ever was."

The words rang in his head, "Eleka Eleka kristoba eleka, atum atum, eleka namen", and he was painfully aware each time one word slipped away and another returned. Then, something happened.

For his part, Liir was knocked unconscious by what seemed to be a hammer striking him from behind. A ringing filled his ears, growing louder and louder until he feared the crescendo would split his head open, and it was all he knew.

When he awoke, the candle had burned no lowed. His body shook and a cold sheen of perspiration coated his skin. He swallowed once, twice, then searched about in a daze.

And then he saw her. Apparently, there had not been enough of her remains all together to completely bring her back, for deep lacerations covered her naked green body. In a morbid fashion, her red blood marred the emerald skin almost festively.

Liir caught his breath, fearing that all he had brought back was a dead body. It wouldn't have surprised him too much.

"At least she'll have a proper funeral," he murmured. "That nutty Scarecrow ought to be pleased."

He crawled over to her side, not yet trusting her legs, and laid a tentative hand on her shoulder.

Elphaba's body shuddered violently and she gasped.

"Agh!" Liir cried, jumping back. Elphaba shivered, her eyes flying beneath her lids. Impossible… yet here she was, moving…

"HELP!" Liir yelled, hurrying back to the witch's side and gathering her bleeding body in his arms, hoping to transfer some comfort of warmth. "HELP! PLEASE, SOMEBODY HELP!"


	11. Forever Wicked

Disclaimer: Still don't own it. Blah.

Author's Note: Yes, I know it's been over a year since I updated. Yes, I know some of you were probably plotting my death, but here it is. The final chapter of Forever and Again the Wicked. Please don't kill me. I'd like to thank all the reviewers who stuck with my unpredictable updating, by the way, particularly the ones who have reviewed in this past year. I wouldn't have gotten off my lazy arse to finish if not to the realization that people were still reading it.

A note on the chapter. Like all the others, it's basically an un-edited rough draft, though longer than the others. I know there's a lot missing, particularly Elphie POV concerning her opinions about Liir and Fiyero and Liir's entire interaction with her. I don't know why, but this time those things felt a little too private to write. I'd prefer each of you decide for yourselves what went through her head and what she and Liir said to one another.

And on Fiyero getting wet... I dunno. I vaguely recall mentioning in an earlier chapter that Fiyero specifically didn't want to get waterlogged. The whole incident of his getting wet and becoming immobile kind of popped out of nowhere. I dunno. I had fun.

Again, I apologize intensely for the late updates, but I've finally followed through with the unspoken promise to finish this. I really, REALLY hope it was worth the wait and, if it didn't... well, feel free to say nasty things to me in reviews. Goodness knows, I deserve it after waiting this long to update.

o-o-o

Chapter 11: Forever Wicked.

Her harsh face was oddly gentle in the warm candlelight, which sent flickering shadows across her beautiful emerald skin

Her harsh face was oddly gentle in the warm candlelight, which sent flickering shadows across her beautiful emerald skin. Fiyero swallowed, or at least made a motion as though to swallow, and lowered his face into his hands, unable to look at her for another moment.

All those eyars, he had wandered through her land, Oz, in a haze of identity crisis while she had been here in Kiamo Ko, lonely and miserable and, ultimately, dead. How long had he pined for a purpose when he had had one from the start?

Didn't matter now. No matter how much regret and guilt this summoned, the fact remained that only Elphaba mattered now. And she looked dreadful.

Deep, ugly gashes cross-crossed her body where Liir had failed to gather all of her remains, but he couldn't bring himself to be bitter with the boy. That Liir had managed it at all was nothing short of miraculous. And they had both concluded that she was missing nothing vital, else she would have not lasted through the day and into the early night. Liir had clumsily stitched the gashes closed, and though the young man was probably the most capable person in the house to do the job, it was plain to see that the stitches were rough and uneven.

Her breathing, slow and steady for the most part, would occasionally hitch in her chest while her eyes flew wildly beneath her lids. But, after a moment or two, she would always slip back into her peaceful slumber.

Only Nanny, in her blissful senility, could sleep as Elphaba did.

As the vigil stretched on, Fiyero found himself entertaining morbid ideas. Suppose something had gone wrong and she never awoke? Suppose she wasted away and died again without ever opening an eye.

His stomach twisted at the thought. He was vaguely aware that Liir and Chistery had come in, urging him to retire and let them keep watch. He'd always refused, polite as the prince he was. He couldn't face the fear that he would leave and return to an emerald pile of dust.

But no. She wasn't dust now. She was flesh. A little younger, perhaps, than the wicked witch Dorothy had accidentally killed and more youthful, but that might have been the gift of sleep. She was certainly more haggard than the vibrant rebel he had known in the Emerald City.

Her cheekbones were, if it was possible, sharper. Before they had cast the warm blanket over her, he had seen a curve to her hips that was alien to him. Of course, she had given birth in his absence.

Without his consent, his gloved hand reached out and brushed against her face, tracing her harsh features in the gentle light. He could feel so little, but it was enough to know that he was touching her again after all this time.

Her breath hitched again. Fiyero laid his palm flat against her cheek, waiting anxiously for the slight fit to pass. Her chest heaved, her eyes flickered and, for the first time, her long fingers tangled in the sheets.

Then, her eyes flew open and she stared wildly about. Had Fiyero had a heart, it would have stopped. Her dark eyes locked on him and widened. Her mouth gaped open and closed in shock. Fiyero allowed a small smile to touch his face.

"Elphaba," he breathed.

Elphaba tore away from him, pressing herself against the wall, clutching the blanket to her bare chest.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered sharply. Her whole frame shook, either from fear or exertion.

"Elphaba," he said again, holding up his hands. "I know I'm… I'm different, but I swear, it's me. Fiyero."

But she was already shaking her head before he'd finished.

"No, no, no," she moaned, pressing her fist to her temple. "Stop it."

"Elphie-"

"_Stop it!_" she shrieked, squeezing her eyes shit. "You won't prey on my hopes a second time, Scarecrow. Go away! Where's Chistery?"

"I'm not lying," he pressed, a sharp pain tearing through him. "It _is _me. Your Fiyero."

"Get out! _Get out! _Liir! Chistery!" Her voice broke as she yelled. Whether or not they could hear her was unclear, but she clearly wasn't willing to wait. She leapt from the bed, shoving past him, and dashed out the door. Fiyero pursued her which, a niggling voice in the back of his mind informed him, was probably not the best idea, but he couldn't stop his feet. She sprinted up the tower stairs and Fiyero, following too hastily after her, stumbled time and time again as his weak straw legs objected to his speed.

He stumbled into the room where Elphaba dashed to and fro, clothed only in her boots and an old, frayed, black dress, positively tearing the room apart.

"The Grimmerie," she muttered. "My broom! Someone's stolen them…"

"Elphaba, calm down," he urged, hurrying to her side. "Your stitches will come out."

She whirled around, only inches away, wearing an expression of utter pain and bewilderment.

"Stay away!" she bit, shoving him back. Fiyero stumbled, but leapt forward and seized her wrist as she attempted to flee down the stairs.

Quick as a snake, she seized a heavy volume from her desk and hurled it at him. He hadn't taken into account the strength of a frightened woman fueled by adrenaline. The weight of the book striking his weak straw frame was staggering, and Fiyero fell back, releasing her wrist.

By the time Fiyero had jumped back to his feet, she was already hurrying down the stairs. He followed.

Unable to locate her broom, Elphaba seized a cloak from the front closet and dashed out into the dead garden, struggling through the slushy snow.

Fiyero chased her, blind of his surroundings. All he could see was Elphaba, his dear Elphie, out in the wet and dangerous cold, her thin body weak and shaky beneath her layers of musty clothing.

His legs trembled as she rounded the corner, disappearing behind the gnarled branches of an ancient fruit tree. His boots squelched as melted snow seeped in, damping his straw. Fiyero rounded the corner, and she was in sight again.

Suddenly –and had he been aware of his surroundings, he might have foreseen it- his boots slipped against the snow and he tumbled to the ground. Frantically, he tried to crawl to his feet again, but the snow was already soaking his straw, making movement nearly impossible.

Ahead of him, Elphaba had slowed to a halt, watching him with a pensive expression on her sharp face. Desperately, he flopped one arm forward in a silent plea that she stay or help him. He wasn't certain which, at the moment. Even he didn't know his own mind where she was concerned.

Elphaba started back and looked to be ready to run again.

"Don't!" he called, a knot welling in his throat, though he had no tears to cry. "Sweet Oz, Elphaba, don't leave me again."

Elphaba halted again, now too far in the shadows for him to read her expression.

"You came with her," she said softly. "To deceive and kill me."

"No, Dorothy never meant it," he moaned. "She was a little vapid, but she was such a sweet girl. She didn't know about your allergy."

"If you were Fiyero and you loved me," she said bitterly. "You would have told her."

"I didn't remember then."

"So you do now?" her voice was thick with unspoken pain.

Feebly, Fiyero tried to drag himself closer to her, but it was no use. With a sigh, he rested his cheek against his arm. No sense in getting his head wet in the middle of a conversation.

"I do," he murmured. "It frightened me when the first memories came back. Then, they became everything. I had to come here, to your last home. I just… I had to."

The figure in the darkness said nothing, and Fiyero had no idea what he could say that might convince her of the truth. Wind whistled through the dead garden, teasing the bottom of her dress. Even from his position, Fiyero could see the angry burns the snow had left around the tops of her boots. There was no telling how badly her feet pained her from whatever flakes might have seeped into her boots.

She strode forward suddenly, resolutely, and stopped only when she stood directly above him. Fiyero shifted his head, staring up as best he could. His cheek was beginning to soak through.

"Tell me about the Emerald City," she instructed. "I need you to prove it."

Why couldn't she have asked that inside?

"There's too much to tell all of it," he said, careful to pronounce each word properly as his face began to go slack.

Elphaba leaned down next to him, but started up a moment later, hissing.

"Don't give yourself any more burns," he instructed carefully.

"Tell me."

Fiyero closed his eyes and, a moment later, he was in her flat.

"We met again, after school, by accident," he told her stiffly. "Fell in love by accident, too. I suppose it was all my fault. Sarima suspected, but she never said anything. I bought you scarves and you wore them on your hips and I wasn't allowed to touch you beneath it."

There was a slight choking sound. Fiyero grimaced.

"Don't cry, Elphaba," he urged. "Liir didn't go through all the trouble of bringing you back just to see you hurt yourself again."

"Go on," she instructed, but he needed little prompting.

"I called you four names. Elphaba, Elphie, Fabala, and Fae. You called me 'Yero my Hero'. But you had to send me away so often."

There was something more they had in common. They'd both died lonely and confused, and had returned to life the same way.

"They killed you," she whispered.

Fiyero tried to form an affirmation, but it was becoming too difficult to move half of his face. Instead, he jerked his head upward in a sort of nod. Yes, the Wizard's obedient servants had killed him. And it had hurt, too.

"Sweet Oz!"

Fiyero cracked open his eyes to see Liir barreling through the chilly courtyard, his cloak forgotted, his breath fogging in little puffs in the air.

"Help 'er in," Fiyero slurred numble, sounding more like a drunk than he mgith have preferred on another occasion. "'Er feet…"

"Oh no," Liir lamented, "I'll have to bandage those, too. Well, come on."

He slipped one arm under his knees, the other gripping her shoulders, and swept her up into his grasp. Elphaba stared, utterly speechless. Whatever Liir she remembered, he was probably very different from the strong, lightly whispered young man who held her in his now capable arms. Slowly, as though he was carrying a china doll, Liir carried her back into the castle. Oz only knew what was going through his head.

Elphaba glanced back, tear burns bright on her emerald skin until they disappeared inside the castle.

It was a minute later that Chistery ambled out, disgruntled, and dragged Fiyero roughly back through the slush.

The Monkey set him up by the fire in the kitchen and wandered off, grumbling absently under his breath. Fiyero stared blankly up at the ceiling, conscious of the water that leaked to the floor through his cotton shirt, the slow, slow stiffening of straw inside the arm nearest to the fire. Now that he had calmed down himself, he could recognize the stupidity of his haste. Of course she would wake panicked. He should have pacified her before hitting her with the truth like the brainless scarecrow he had perceived himself to be for so long.

Out in the garden, it had seemed that she eventually believed him, but it was hard to say. She wasn't in a proper state of mind.

Fiyero sighed and closed his eyes, drifting off into memory. Sarima, Manek, Irji, and his darling Nor. His days at Shiz, his nights with Elphaba in the Emerald City. He tried not to focus on the long years where he had hung, too shy and quiet to properly frighten crows. He tried to smother his vain hope for the future, which fought for precedence in his mind.

He twitched the fingers of his drying arm. He was certainly growing warm. Hopefully, Chistery would return and help him turn onto his other side so that it could dry, too.

Then, Fiyero smelled it, or half-smelled as an enchanted scarecrow could. And he half-smelled the sickening odor of burning straw.

His eyes flew open in terror. A small flame had caught on his sleeve and was already eating into his arm.

"H-Heh!" he called, his clumsy, sodden mouth unable to form the full word 'Help!' "_Heeeeeeeh! HEEEEEEH!"_

Under the sound of his yells, he heard footsteps thundering down the stairs.

"Oh, damn!" Liir gasped. He grabbed Fiyero's still-wet arm and dragged him away from the fire. Fiyero shook his burning arm, still yelling –it was all he could do.

Liir glanced around for some sort of solution and settled on a pitcher of water left on the table. He upturned it, drowning the flames and splashing water everywhere. Once again, Fiyero was soaked. Except, this time, his shirt had a great burned hole near the seam, through which the wet, charred straw peeked.

He groaned and thunked his head against the stone floor.

"Chistery!"

Fiyero had never heard anyone growl and shout at the same time, but Liir somehow managed.

"Sorry," he mumbled resentfully. "He was supposed to watch so that wouldn't happen."

"S'ohay," Fiyero grunted. He watched dully as Liir laid a towel down by he fire and, gently, lifted Fiyero up and set him down on his other side to dry.

"I'll be right back," he promised. For a moment, Fiyero feared he would be left too long alone again, but Liir returned a moment later with a sewing basked. Silently, he set to sewing a patch over the gaping hole in Fiyero's arm.

"Iir," Fiyero slurred. " 'Ow's…" he couldn't form the word 'Elphaba', but he didn't need to try. Liir shrugged and began sewing the patch in place.

"She's fine, I guess," he answered. "A little spooked. You shouldn't have come right out at her like that. It's bad enough you go saying it to us, but it was downright mindless to do that to her."

Yes, Fiyero had already reprimanded himself. Not that he could inform the boy. Liir went on.

"She's having trouble accepting what happened. She always was stubborn like that."

Fiyero jerked his head in an affirmative.

"Her feet are a little burned, but most of the damage was on her calves. It wasn't that bad. _She_ didn't fall down, after all."

In Fiyero's opinion, it was a little unfair of Liir to pick at him when he couldn't defend himself but, of course, it wasn't like he could do anything about it.

"I bandaged her legs from the knee down, just in case. She popped a stitch in her side, but I just bandaged that, too, since it didn't look too bad. She'll be all right. She's tough."

They fell into a companionable silence. Liir finished the patchwork and sat in a chair, keeping vigil. When one side was dry enough, he helped Fiyero to shift and give the other a chance. Twice, Fiyero was left alone as Liir dashed back up the tower to check on Elphaba. Both times, he returned with evident relief on his face, and assurances that she was fine.

When at last Fiyero could feel his face drying, dawn was beginning to peek through the windows. He glanced up at Liir, who stared into space, lost in his own thoughts.

"Liir," he said softly. "Did you tell you that you're her son?"

Liir stiffened.

"Yes," he replied rigidly.

"How did she…"

"That's private." Liir's voice held such a tone of finality that there was no room for further discussion.

By the time Fiyero was properly dry, Liir had gallen asleep in his chair. He gently roused the boy and told him to go eat some breakfast and get into a proper bed for some real rest. Liir wearily agreed. Fiyero headed for the stables, where he could find some relatively fresh straw. If he knew anything, it was the danger of permitting one's innards to mold.

He hesitated at the door of the stables. Should he go and check on Elphaba afterwards, or fill Nanny in? No. Elphaba would be better left alone. Nanny probably didn't remember that Elphaba had been dead at all.

He sighed and eased into the large stall where the fresh hay was kept. A stool sat in the corner, probably belonging to a long-gone groom. He dragged it over to the haphazard piles of hay (which consisted mostly of dried Vinkus grass) and sat, angling his back to the door.

He'd always been uncomfortable when it came to changing his straw. There was something so personal about it, so… private. And there was the fear that someone would walk in on him doing it and be reminded precisely what he was. Straw and cloth.

It didn't help that the Monkeys probably wouldn't appreciate his use of their straw.

Fiyero unbuttoned the front of his shirt and, shamefully, pulled out a handful of old, now ruined straw. Disgusted, he dropped it on the floor. He seized another handful and dropped it, then began purposefully emptying his right leg. Back when he'd been a Scarecrow and nothing more, this process had been eerie. Now, it was downright disconcerting. The feeling of his arm _inside_ his leg, pulling out the old filling, the odd sensation of having a deflated balloon for a limb before stuffing something he could see and touch back in it.

In just under an hour's time, he had managed to replace all the straw in his legs, he began on his left arm, adding to the now large pile of straw to be discarded. Just as he was beginning to feel his arm go slack for lack of straw, the stable door suddenly creaked. Fiyero stiffened and, very carefully, glanced around.

Elphaba stood just inside the stable, her piercing eyes fixed on him, or rather, his open shirt. Bashfully, Fiyero turned away and tried to button it clumsily. The task was hard enough with both his gloved hands functioning properly, but when one was limp from lack of straw, it proved to be too much trouble. He settled for holding it closed, hopefully hiding his insides from view.

"What are you doing?" she asked softly.

"Well, I got wet," he explained awkwardly. "And… even though I'm dry, I've probably retained a lot of water. I need to change out the… the straw. So it doesn't mold."

She surveyed him with an odd expression on her face, weary but still keen.

"It really is just straw in there, isn't it?"

Fiyero didn't know how to properly reply to that, so he settled on an awkward nod.

"And you here you are, talking like my Yero, reciting things that nobody but him should know. It's almost as though you saw my hopes and you're acting on them to be cruel."

"I would never be cruel," he assured her, far more gently than he felt. He wanted nothing more than to spring forward and hold her in his arms, to almost feel her against him. She glanced away, piercing the stable wall with her eyes for a minute before returning her gaze to him.

"That can't be very easy," she said, nodding toward the pile of old straw. Fiyero sighed and shook his head.

"It's troublesome. I hate doing it, but I hate mold more."

"Let me help," she offered and, before Fiyero could protest, she strode forward and seized a handful of fresh straw. With her other hand, she reached for his shirt, intending to open it and stuff the straw in. Fiyero jerked away, knocking over the stool and stumbling to his feet, which were a little unsteady with the fresh straw. Elphaba's eyes widened with hurt and insult, and for a moment he feared she might slap him.

This wasn't what he had expected to feel. When Liir had called for them, holding her in his arms, Fiyero had felt joy, relief, guilty hope. He had imagined since what he would feel when the two of them were finally alone again, talking, no longer the Witch and the Scarecrow, but Elphaba and Fiyero. He had expected those same feelings of joy, and perhaps a spark of passion that he could never express. But this shame of himself was the last thing he had anticipated.

Elphaba clenched her jaw.

"Please, understand," he pleaded gently. "It isn't that I don't want you touching me. The opposite, really, but… just not in that way."

She furrowed her brows in confusion. Fiyero sighed.

"When you think of me, I want you to think of me as human. I want you to see a man, not some farmer's doll and… if you opened me up and looked inside, even if you were trying to help me, you would never be able to see a man again. And that would be it. I would be the Scarecrow again and, after all these years, I don't want that to happen."

She frowned but dropped the straw back into the fresh pile.

"I won't watch, then," she consented. She turned and strode to the opposite corner of the stable where she sat, her knees pulled up to her chest.

"Elphaba, you don't have to stay out here," he assured her. "I'll be back in in a bit. No sense in you getting cold."

"Just get back to it," she instructed. There was no point in arguing it. Fiyero righted the stool and sat, once again picking at the hay inside of his arm. She said nothing, and he began to get the impression that unless he said something, she would remain silent the entire time.

"You seem a little more trusting now than earlier," he remarked. "Why?"

"The snow," she replied. "It was warm when Dorothy came here. Now it isn't."

"The first snow of the season," he explained. "I don't know where it came from. Probably just the other night. Nanny thinks it's already Lurlinemas. We've given up explaining that it won't come for months."

"Nanny," Elphaba breathed. "I can't believe she's still alive."

"Neither can anyone else. The Unnamed God must really like her or something."

"He must."

Silence. Then, Elphaba spoke again.

"It was Liir who brought me back. I don't know that it's worth believing, but I suppose it's true. Hard to imagine that little lump of a boy growing up into…"

A man. And they'd both missed out on it.

"You know, has a daughter," Fiyero suggested. Elphaba nodded.

"Yes. The boy said she looked like me. He named her Fae. No idea where he got the name from, but he described these sort of odd visions. I didn't quite understand him, but I expect he'll explain later."

Fiyero pulled the last of the old straw from the arm and began stuffing it with the fresh. And that was how most of the morning passed. Elphaba remained in her corner, politely averting her eyes while Fiyero finished his uncomfortable task while the two told one another what they had experienced in one another's absence. The subjects of Manek and Dorothy, however, were avoided. Those heavy discussions could wait for a later day.

Around lunch time, Liir strode into the stables, just as Fiyero was buttoning up his shirt. He paused, realizing what the Scarecrow must have been doing, but had the sense not to mention anything. Instead, he turned to Elphaba.

"What are you doing out here after I just bandaged your feet?" he reprimanded. Elphaba stared at him, her face still puzzled.

"I wanted to talk to the Scarecrow," she replied levelly.

"Well… well, make sure he brings you back soon. The last front came in pretty quickly, and I don't want you out here in your condition if another one comes sometime today."

"I'll do as I please."

It was as close to an agreement as he was going to get, and Liir knew it. He turned and strode back inside.

"He doesn't believe me," Fiyero informed her. "Thinks I'm a loony or I have some ulterior motive."

Elphaba, somehow sensing that he'd finished, stood and turned around.

"He believes you more than he realizes," she insisted. "He needs more time." She raised her chin. "Maybe he'll find it when he leaves."

"He's leaving."

"He's going to collect Candle and Fae from the Cloister," Elphaba said offhandedly. "Thinks it might be good for them to meet me. The years must have dulled his memory, or he'd never actually suppose that anyone, especially a baby, could genuinely want to meet me."

"You don't give yourself enough credit," Fiyero assured her, rising from the stool. "I was glad to meet you."

"Even after all this?" She eyed him, the slight wrinkles around her eyes crinkling in dismay rather than playfulness, as they might have.

"Especially after all of this," he promised. "I'd be dead if you hadn't cast whatever spell that was."

"Botched spell," she snorted and, before he could protest, she went on. "Apparently Nor's also been going about writing 'Elphaba Lives' on all sorts of property. He says he's going to write 'At Home' under a lot of them and see if she comes."

Fiyero brightened at the idea. Nor, his darling girl. The thought of seeing her again warmed him.

"So, it's just going to be us," Elphaba mused, her face pleasantly pensive.

"And Nanny," Fiyero reminded her. "And the Monkeys."

"But really, just us."

She took several small steps toward him, bridging the comfortable gap. Fiyero wished he had a heart and a stomach, so that he might feel the butterflies that would send them out of control. There was a hint of a glimmer in her eyes, though her weathered face looked as though it might never truly smile. She reached out, slipping one thin hand into his gloved one.

"Elphaba, you know I'm not a man anymore. I can't…"

"You've said my name so much since I've seen you again. Is it because you're still having trouble believing I'm here? Because I have no trouble believing that you are my Fiyero."

"You did last night."

"It's a new day."

She leaned upward and brushed her lips against the potato-sack skin of his face. The small motion lit a fire inside of him, and suddenly he wasn't afraid of burning. But he grimaced all the same.

"I can't physically do what I think you want of me," he asserted painfully. "I know I said I want you to think of me as a man, but that doesn't mean I can be one."

"You're a man to me," she argued. "And who said you had any idea what I had in mind?" She tilted her head to one side, her eyes burning into his, and he was suddenly reminded of the young woman he had known, the one who got by on hope and sheer force of will.

"Liir returned the Grimmerie to me. I'm going to try to make you human again. We won't be the way we dreamed, but maybe we'll be better than we are."

Somehow, Fiyero found himself believing her. In spite of the Emperor Apostle, in spite of the hateful memory the world held for her, he couldn't doubt that she was right. It made sense now. Liir had thought him crazy –he had thought himself crazy- for coming all the way out here for a dead woman. But it didn't seem so crazy now.

"I love you," he murmured, and pressed his itchy lips to her forehead. For a brief instant, perhaps a trick of light, he thought he saw her lips twitch upward in a smile before it disappeared.

"Let's go inside," she suggested. "It's cold and I haven't had anything to eat."

"Of course."

He followed her inside –he'd follow her to the ends of the earth- and watched from the table as she insisted on making her own meal. Even knowing how different the house was from when she'd last seen it, she remained composed, barely betraying a hint of distress at the new world she had awoken to.

He watched her eat, loving the sight of her jaw moving under emerald skin. How many charming meals had he watched her like this, back on her bed in the early morning, while she wore nothing but his scarf? He wanted those days back, and though he knew that was impossible, he dared to hope.

"How do you think you'll make me human again?" he asked. Elphaba swallowed.

"The same way I made you a scarecrow except, this time, I'll be a little more careful with my research. You'll help me, of course."

Fiyero nodded. That was a given.

"The sooner the better," she went on, oddly chatty. Could this possibly be the start of one of her oh-so-rare pleasant moods. She glanced at him, her eyes twinkling in her expressionless face. "For my own purposes, I'd rather you were human sooner rather than later."

Had he had proper eyebrows, they would have inched upward.

"After that whole 'you're a man to me' thing, I must admit, Elphaba, that's an awfully wicked thing to say."

"Yes, well," she took a sip of wine. "I suppose they called me wicked long enough to make it a little bit true."

Fiyero smiled, wide enough for both of them, and chuckled. With all the worries and dilemmas and confessions they would be facing soon, he wanted to laugh now while he still could.

"I never fancied Elphaba Thropp almost admitting to being wicked and proud of it," he declared.

"I admit nothing," she said with a shrug. "I am what I am, and I always will be."

"Forever," Fiyero agreed.

Fin

Thanks again to everyone who read. I know doesn't like us doing this, but I'd like to personally thank everyone who reviewed on Ch. 10.

IAmTheWitch- Glad you liked the turn. I hope it followed through to your hopes.

TaylxBayl- Your wish has been my command.

Ornlu the Wolf Demon- Now you know. Hope you enjoyed it.

Tiphen- Thank you very much. Finally got the ball rolling. I hope Elphie's pleased.

The-Wicked-Have-More-Fun- Good eye, again, on the Crucible reference. I hope you loved the story as much to the end as you did on chapter one.

Anonymous (oh, how original)- Here you go!

Pandora of Ithilien- Heh. Causing Fiyero pain is oddly satisfying, don't you think? Hope this chapter was crazy enough for you.

Becky- Here you go.

K- Ack! Well, good thing this is the last, or else you'd never get any sleep, would you?

Lydia Monroe- Now you know. Sorry I stopped like that.

LunaSoleil07- Thanks for the enthusiasm. I didn't have any chapters in reserve, so thanks for encouraging me to finish up at last.

musicfan1207- I'm back, and it's finished. I'm so glad you like it.

BloodyMary2- Thank you so much for the encouragement. I know I showed no promise for finishing, but knowing that you still read it, even this late with that sort of dismal outlook, really drove me to finally finish it. I hope it lives up to your expectations.

I may or may not write vignettes about their lives after this, but I have no intention of writing a full-length sequel. If there are any short vignettes you want (Elphie meeting Fae, Fiyero reunited with Candle, etc...) Please let me know. I'm sorry I couldn't draw this story out longer, but that would have been prolonging pain.

Cheers, and thanks so much to everyone who's gone on this journey through Oz with me.

Port-of-Seas


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